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tails 

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mage 


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et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  ndcessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  mdthode. 


rrata 
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pelure, 
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r 


POPULAR    NOVELS. 

By  May  Agnes  Fleming. 

l.-GXnr  EARLSCOURT'S  WIFE. 
2. —A  WONDERFUL  WOMAN. 
8.— A  TERRIBLE  SECRET. 
4.— NORINE'S  REVENGE. 
5.— A  MAD  MARRIAGE. 
6.— ONE  NIGHT'S  MYSTERY. 
7.— KATE  DANTON. 
8.— SILENT  AND  TRUE. 
9.— HEIR  OF  CHARLTON. 
10.— CARRIED  BY  STORM.    (New.) 


••  Mrs.  Fleming's  stories  are  growing  more  nnd  more  popu- 
lar evtry  clay.       Their  (U'iiiic!U'''r.s  of  character 
life-like  eoiivcrsationa,   flaslu^s    of  wit,    con- 
stantly viiryiiip  scor.cs,  and  deeply  in- 
teresting plots,  comb  ne  to  place 
thrir    author   in   the  very 
first  rank  of  Modern 
Novelists." 


All  published  uniform  with  this  volume.  Price  31.B0  eaob, 
and  seut/ree  by  mail  on  receipt  of  price. 


BT 


6.  W.  €ARIi£TOIV  Sc  CO.,  Pabllsliers, 
NeMT  York. 


Carried  by  Storm. 


3.  KoDcL 


BY 


MAY    AGNES    FLEMING, 


AUTUOU    OF 


'SILENT  AND  TRUE,"  "  A  MAD  MARRIAGE,"   "  A  TERRIBLE  SKCRKT  ' 
"GUY    EARI.SCOURT's  wife,"   "A  WONDERIXM,  WOMAN,"         ' 
"ONE    night's    MYSTERY,"   ETC.,    ETC. 


"When  she  is  angry  she  is  keen  and  shrewd. 
And,  though  she  is  but  little,  she  is  fierce." 


Midsiiininer  Night's  Dream, 


<&, 


NEWYORK: 

Copyright,  1879,  by 

G,  JV.  Carle  fori  &  Co.,  PtibUshers, 


LONJ)OxV  :     S.    LOW    &    CO. 
MDCCCLXXX. 


Fs  'i^' 


Samttbl  Stodder, 

Stereotypeb, 

DO  Akn  Stbbbt  N.  Y. 


TBOtr 

Fbinhno  and  Book  BiHsme  Ca 

N.  Y. 


CONTENTS. 


PART  FIRST. 

CHAP. 

TXQM 

I.  Wliich  is  Highly  Sensational 7 

17.  Wliich  Begins  at  tlie  Beginning 14 

III.  How  Little  Olga  gets  Lost 20 

IV.  A  Wild  Girl  of  the  Woods 27 

V.  Sleaford's .,0 

(j^ 

VL  A  Deed  of  Darkness 41 

VIL  Sleaford's  Joanna 47 

VIII.  The  Abbotts  of  Abbott  Wood 54 

IX.  The  Misses  Sleaford  at  Home 73 

X,  Geoffrey  Lamar qq 

XL  In  which  Mr.  Abbott  Asserts  Himself loo 

XIL  *'  Nobody's  Child  » 114 

PART    SECOND. 

I.  What  the  Years  Make  of  Joanna 135 

n.  In  which  Joanna  Enters  Society 133 

IH.  In  which  Joanna  Caps  the  Climax 154 

IV.  In  which  Joanna  Runs  Away kjq 

V.  In  which  Joanna  Seeks  her  Fortune 183 

VL  In  which  Joanna  Finds  her  Fortune 104 


Vi  CONTENTS. 

CKAP.  PA  OH 

Vir.  Tlu!  Tnifrcfly  at  SleaforcVs 20? 

VIII.  GoolTroy  Hears  a  Confession 217 

IX.  A  Long  Journey 228 

X.  Leo's  Ball 241 

XL  After  tliat  Night 251 

TART  THIRD. 

I.  After  the  Story  Ended 201 

IL  After  the  Concert 273 

m.  After  Long  Years 283 

IV.   "  Carried  by  Storm  " 293 

V.   "Little  Leo  " 301 

VL   "Joan  Bennett" 313 

VII.  The  Story 321 

VIII.  IIow  Joanna  Came  Back 331 

IX.  IIow  Joanna  Paid  her  Debt 346 

X.   "  The  Time  of  Roses  " 361 

XL  IIow  Joanna  Said  Good-by 371 

Xn    Wedding  Bella 387 


CARRIED    BY    STORM. 


-»♦♦- 


PART    FIRST. 

ciiaptp:r  r. 

wiiic/r  IS  HIGHLY  sexsational. 

OOK  at  it  well,''  says  JVIiss  Ventnor,  «  It 
IS  what  you   hav(3  never  seen  before— 
what     yon     may     never    see    again— a 
Haunted  House  !" 
^      One  slim,  gloved  hand,  looking  like  a  perfect  hand 
in    daHc   gray    marble,    points   the    dramatic   speech 
M.ss  Ventnor  is  given  to  dramatic  and  q.igrammatic 
I.tle  speeches  at  all  times,  but  as  she  is  ..o^  given  to 
talking  nonsense  at  anytime,  I  know  there  is  "method 
in  the  madness"  of  this  assertion  now.     And  yet-a 
haunted  house  !  I  laugh  a  little,  as  I  lean  out  from  th-^ 
carriage  to  look. 

^  "Do^  not  laugh,"  says  Miss  Ventnor,  austerelv  : 
there  is  nothing  to  laugh  at.  A  dark  and  direful 
tragedy  was  enacted  within  the  walls  of  that  gloomy 
red  farm-hoiise-let  me  see-four-yes,  neaHy  five 
years  ago.  Do  you  see  that  third  window  to  theVi<.ht 
in  the  attic  story?  Well,  a  man  was  murdered  J 
stabbed  to  death  Id  that  room." 


8 


WHICH    IS    HKiHLY    SKXSATIOXAL. 


"Uufli  !  liow  liorrid  !"  I  sav,  whh  n  sliuddfr.  If 
rIio  had  told  mo  ho  liad  drowned  himself,  or  ])oison('d 
liiniseir,  or  charcoaled  hiinsolf,  (i  Id  I'Vcnira/'s,  or  even 
liangod  himself,  or  ufono  out  of  timo  into  otcrnily  hy 
any  ono  of  those  other  violent  hut  unbloody  f^atos,  her 
traijfody  would  liavo  lost  its  most  grisly  element.  But 
the  average  female  mind  shrinks  in  rej)ulsion  from  tho 
llionght  of  a  severed  jugular  or  a  ))ool  of  blood. 

"And  over  since  the  house  has  been  haunted,  of 
course,"   says    IMiss   Veiitnor,    folding   one    gi'ay    kid 
cahnly  over  tlie  otlier.     "  It  is  a  good  liouse   and   a 
line  farm,  and  since  Sleaford's  time — Sleafonl  was  tho 
victim — tlie  rent  lias  been  merely  nominal.    \\\  in  vain. 
Sleaford  *  walks,' and  in  the  '  dead  waste  and   middle 
of  the   night 'the   struggle  is    re-enacted,  and   panic- 
stricken,  belated  wayfarers  ilv.     It  is  all  nonsense,  of 
course,"  says  Miss  Vetitnor,  changing  suddenly  from 
a  Siddons'  voice  to  a  practical,  every-day  ono.    "  Slea- 
ford, ])oor  wretch,  lies  over  yonder  in  l\)tter's  Field 
and  troubles  nobody.     IJut  tho  fact  remains  that  peo- 
ple will  not  live  in  the  ])lace,  and  tho  most  audacious 
tramp  and  thief   will  give  the  peach  trees  and   melon 
jKitches   of    Sleaford's  a  wide  berth,  bo  ho  never   so 
hungry.     And — I  do  not  mind  admitting  that  even  / 
would  go  lialf  a  dozen  miles  roundabout  rather  than 
pass  it  alono  after  nightfall.     So  take  a  good  look  at 
it,  my  dear,  a  bona  Jide  haunted  house  is  a  sight  to 
be  respected  and  remembered,  if  only  for  its  rarity  in 
tiiis  degenerate  age.     And  this  evening,  after  dinner, 
I  will  tell  you  all  about  it." 

I  do  not  need  tho  injunction — I  am  taking  a  good 
look  at  Sleaford's  !  Even  without  Miss  Ventnor's 
ghastly  legend  the  place  could  hardly  fail  to  impress 


M  V 


'*< 


WHICH    IS    IIKIHLY   SKXSATIONAL. 


0 


one  in  i  weird  and  dismal  way.  IJiit  jnst  now  thc////.sg 
€?i  scene  is  in  keepinj^  wilh  tlio  .story.  A  ,L,'ray,  I'ast- 
driflinj^  aulunmal  sky,  IvImlj  low,  and  tlircatcninu; 
rain  ;  acliill,  coinplaininu;,  fill'ul  wind,  risinuf  and  I'all- 
inir  over  tlio  rich  rank  inarslics  ;  a  loni;  .strotrh  of  Hat 
farm  land,  scar  and  brown,  corn-stalks  rattlinuj  tlicir 
melancholy  dry  bones,  the  orchard  trees  slriiij»ed  and 
forlorn.  In  the  midst  the  house,  lon<^,  low,  a  dull 
l)rick-eolor,  broken  jtanes  in  the  windows,  broken 
fences  aronn<l,  no  dog  at  the  gate,  no  face  at  the  case- 
ment, no  smoke  from  the  chimneys,  no  voice  to  wel- 
come or  warn  away.  Desolation  has  lain  her  lean 
brown  hand  upon  it,  and  marked  her  own.  Anything 
more  forlorn,  more  "ramshackle,"  more  forbidding,  no 
fancy  can  [)icture.  And  from  being  a  <]eserted  house, 
no  matter  what  the  cause,  from  ghosts  to  beilbugs,  to 
being  a  haunted  house,  there  is  but  a  step. 

"There   it   stands,"   says  jMiss  Ventnor,  musingly, 
her  elbow  on  her  knee,  her  pretty  chin  in  her  hand, 

*'  '  Under  somo  prodigious  ban, 
Of  exconnuuuiciitlou ' 

and  yet  I  can  remember  when  Sloaford's  was  tho 
rendezvous  of  all  that  was  youngest,  loudest,  merriest, 
in  a  radius  of  twenty  miles — the  'jolliest  old  roost 
going,'  as  poor  Frank  Livingston  used  to  tell  me. 
Tho  Sleaford  girls  were  tho  liandsomest,  reddest- 
cheeked,  blackest-eyed,  loudest-laughing  gypsies  to 
be  seen  for  a  mile.  There  were  two  of  them,  as  much 
alike  as  peas  in  a  pod,  as  round  and  rosy  as  twin 
tomatoes.  There  were  the  two  Sleaford  boys,  tall, 
strapping  fellows,  with  more  of  the  wild  gyi)sy  strain 
even   than   their   sisters,   the  best  dancers,  wrestlers, 


10 


WHICH    IS    IIKJIILY    SKXSATIOXAL. 


rowers,  siiiL,'('rs,  fij^'litcrs,  cvervtliiM'jf  but  ll>o  best  faiMti' 
crs — tlu'V  ncvci"  workcil.  'riicic  \v;is  (lilcs  SK«;il'or(l 
Ijimsc'lf,  who  '.vciif  ii|>  to  tliat  ;itl'K'  I'ooiii  otic  moon 
lli^ht  niijlit,  ;i  stroiiijj,  stalwart,  man,  and  was  carrii-d 
down  next  nufriiiiii;'  — an  awful  .sj)L'clac'U'.  And  lust  of 
all  tlicru  was — .lojuma." 


JMiss  A'ciif nor's  voice  t.'skes  a  sudden  elianp^o  as  it 
slowly — relnctaiitl} ,  it  seems — proiioiinees  this  name, 
;i  touch  of  stromjj  repulsion  it.  has  not  had  evt-n  when 
tellim'  thestorvof  SleaTord's  i^risly  death.  She  sits 
suddenly  erect  as  she  utters  it,  and  gathers  np  the 
reins. 

"Let  us  ^  o,"  she  says,  with  a  sliiver  ;  "it  is  ,i 
horrible  placu',  iiaunted  by  evil  memories  if  by  nothinj^ 
more  taninble.  It  is  u'rowincx  cold,  too.  Do  not  look 
fit  it  any  more — it  is  uncanny.  You  will  dream  of 
.Sleaford's  to-ni.L,dit." 

"Wait!"  I  say  ;  "  look  there!" 
I  speak  in  a  whisper,  and  lay  my  liand  on  her 
irm.  aMiss  Ventnor  bends  forward.  Over  the  broken 
pickets  of  the  fence  the  solitary  liLjiire  of  a  man  leans, 
.bis  arms  folded  across  the  top,  his  eyes  fixed  stead- 
fastly on  the  house.  A  moment  ago  lie  was  not  tliere  ; 
we  have  not  seen  him  approach  ;  th  >  apparition  could 
not  have  been  more  unexpected  if  he  had  risen  from 
tlie  ground. 

"Ah!"  Miss  Ventnor  says,  a  half-startled  look 
coming  into  her  eyes,  "  I  did  not  know  he  was  hero. 
That  is  the  one  man  of  all  the  men  on  earth  who 
could  throw  light  on  part  of  the  Sleaford  mystery— 
if  h 


e  chose 


5» 


And  be  does  not  cl 
lie   does   not   cl 


9" 


oose 
loose — I   doubt  if   ho   ever    wil. 


■i 

% 


i. ! 


n 


wiiinr  IS  iiKJiir^Y  skxsatioxal. 


11 


a 


> 


r1i<>f).io.  I  Nvoiidcr — I  wojidcr  what  lie  lias  (Idmo  with 
her  !" 

"With  li(jr?  with  whom?  Oiiv  of  thu  bhick- 
oyt'«l,  foinato-chcc'kcd  Misses  Slcaford  ?" 

"Alisscs  Slcalonl  ?"  coiitcniptiioiisly.  "No,  Jo- 
anna. That  Is  her  window  ho  is  hjokini^  at — I  he  attic 
room  iK'Xl  to  the  chaiuhtT  of  horrors.  I  wonder  what 
he  has  done  with  her,"  says  Miss  Vent  nor,  sjH'akinLC 
to  herseir  ;  "  it  must  liave  been  worse  than  having 
a  while  elephant  on  his  hands.  'J'hat  is  (Jeorge 
IJIake." 

"George  Blake!  Il-m  !  a  commonpiaco  eogno- 
men  enongh  for  the  hero  of  a  melodrama.  Do  I 
understand  you  to  say  tiiis  ^Iv.  IJlake  eh»[)ed  witli 
Mile.  Joanna?" 

"No;  Joanna  eloped  with  /u'/if.  lie  was  the  vic- 
tim. Never  miiwl  now.  I  am  cold,  and  I  want  my 
dinner.     I  am  going  home.     Get  along,  Frisky." 

Frisky  pricks  up  his  ears,  tosses  his  brown  njano, 
and  gets  along.  The  sound  j)iere(>s  through  Mr. 
Ijlake's  l)rowjj  study  ;  he  turns  shai'ply  and  sees  ^Fiss 
"Vent nor.  She  inclines  her  liead,  he  lifts  his  hat — a 
moment,  and  wo  are  out  of  sight.  In  that  moment  I 
have  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  sallow  and  rather  hand- 
some face,  a  slight  and  mediiuii-sized  figure,  two  dark 
eyes,  and  a  brown  mustache. 

"A  veri/  commonplace  young  man  to  bo  tlie  first 
lover  in  a  melodiama,"  I  reiterate.  "Is — ah — your 
Mr.  Blake  a  gentleman,  Olga  ?" 

"  i\[y  Mr.  Blake  !"  repeats  Miss  Ventnor,  laugh- 
ing ;  "well,  you  wouldn't  know  much  difference.  He 
is  a  newspaper  man,  a  journalist,  a  penny-adiner,  works 
on  daily  papers — is   clover,  they  say,  and  has   good» 


12 


WHICH  IS  iiioiiLY  sensational. 


manners.  A  thonsantl  times  too  good  to  have  his  life 
spoiled  by  a  woman." 

"  3Iy  dear,  that  is  the  only  thincf  of  interest  about 
him,  the  leaven  that  lightens  the  whole  man.  There 
is  always  the  element  of  the  heroic  in  a  man  whoso 
life  has  been  spoiled  by  a  woman — if  there  is  any- 
thing in  him  it  is  sure  to  force  it  out.  And  men  bear 
it  so  well,  too  !  I  dare  say  Mr.  George  BJake  eats  his 
three  meals  per  diem  with  as  Christian  a  relish,  and 
writes  twice  as  pungent  jtaragraphs  as  before.  Was 
Joanna  pretty  ?  Quaint  little  ugly  name,  by-the-byo 
— Joanna." 

Olga  Ventnor  does  not  reply.  At  last  she  lowers 
the  reins  and  looks  at  me. 

"Do  you  believe,"  she  asks,  "  in  people  being  pos- 
sessed ?" 

"  Good  gracious  !"  I  cry,  aghast. 

It  is  the  second  startling  speech  within  the  hour, 
and  really  this  last  is  quite  too  horrid. 

"Because,"  says  Miss  Ventnor,  trenchantly,  "if 
ever  any  human  being  was  possessed  of  a  demon  Jo- 
anna M'as  !  Now,  do  not  ask  any  questions,  for  here 
we  are,  and  thumbscrews  would  not  extort  anothei 
fsyllable  from  me  until  I  have  had  my  dinner." 

4<  4:  4c  %  H<  >!( 

The  threatening  rain  begins  to  fall  with  the  falling 
darkness.  It  is  beating  sharply  against  the  panes  as 
•we  descend  to  the  dining-room  half  an  hour  later. 
But  plate-glass  and  crimson  curtains  shut  out  wind, 
and  rain,  and  night ;  a  fire  burns  in  the  shining  grate> 
the  gas-lights  in  their  ground-glass  lily-cups  flood  tho 
deep  red  carpet,  the  gilt  picture-frames,  the  poh'shed 
mahogany  sideboard,  the  sparkling  crystal,  and  rough 


w 


WHICH    IS    HIGHLY    Si:XSATIOXAL. 


13 


tis 


olfl  silver  of  tlio   flliinor  siM'vioc.     An<l  ]\Iiss  Vontnor, 
in  (lark-blue  silk,  with  a  tjoocl  deal  of  black  lace  about 


It,  aiu 


1 


her  li 


a  sweet-smelling  crimson  rose  m  Her  iiair,  is 
quite  an  ideal  hostess.  Uut  all  through  soup  and 
salmon,  roast  and  entreat,  jellies  and  paslrv,  iced  pud- 
ding and  jieaehes,  and  black  coffee,  I  think  f>i  the 
Sleafords  and  the  gloomy  red  farm-house,  the  awful 
upper  chamber,  the  tomato-faced  maidens,  the  gypsy 
Kons,  the  mysterious  Joanna,  and  the  lonely  tigure 
of  ]Mr.  vrcorsxe  13Iake,  leaninuc  with  folded  arms 
on  the  broken  rails,  and  ga/.ing  at  the  lattice  of  the 
young  woman  who  had  eloped  witli  him.  Does  ^Fr. 
Blake  ])refer  coming  back  here,  and  sentimentali/ing 
over  four  greenish  panes  of  glass  to  gazing  on  the 
charms  of  Mistress  Joanna  in  the  flesh  ? 

After  uiniicj",  wiih  slippers  on  the  fender,  the  ruby 
shine  of  the  fire  on  her  trailing  azure  silk  and  fine 
laces,  and  red  rose  and  pretty  fair  hair,  Olga  t(^lls  mo 
the  story  of  the  Sleafords. 

Outside  there  is  the  accompaniment  of  fast-falling 
rain,  dully-sighing  wind,  wetness,  blackness,  night.  I 
set  it  down  here  in  different  words,  and  much  more 
than  Miss  Vcntnor  told  me,  much  more  than  she  knew 
lierself  that  memorable  night.  Bit  by  bit  the  strange 
afllair  has  come  to  liijht,  and  to  the  knowledijre  of  those 
interested  therein,  among  whom  no  one  is,  or  has  been, 
more  vividly  interested  than  myself.  If  I  do  not 
carry  you  away  as  i"was  carried  away  that  evening,  it 
ia  because  pen,  ink,  and  paper  do  not  constitute  a 
handsome  young  hidy  in  silk  attire,  with  sweet,  clear 
voice,  sweet,  shiniiig  eyes,  and  a  story-telling  talent 
that  would  have  done  honor  to  one  of  those  improper 
creatures  iu  the  Decameron,  who  told  tales  by  moon- 


i 


14 


WinCJI    BKOIXS   AT   THE   BEGIXNIXG. 


liL'ht  in  tlio  g.'irdcn  of  Boccaccio  to  tlio  listening 
Florentines.  'J'liis,  in  i/f>/  way,  and  with  additions,  is 
the  story  Oiga  Ventnor  told  nie  that  wet  October 
night — the  tragic  story  of  the  Sleafords. 


♦♦» 


CIIAPTER   II. 


WIITCII   BEGINS  AT  THE  BEGIXNING. 


And  yet,  in  s])ite  of  all,  of  spoiling  and  flattery 
onongh  to  ruin  an  army  of  innocents,  she  was  a  charm- 
ing child,  simple  and  natural,  with  a  laugh  all  wild 
and  free,  pretty  childish  ways,  full  of  flawless  health 
and  rosy  life.  It  was  for  her  sake — the  a[)ple  of  his 
eye,  and  the  pride  of   his   life — that  Colonel  Ventnoi 


WHICH    BI'XIIXS    AT   THE    nKGIX.VIXG. 


1ft 


resigned  Swiss  mountains,  Lake  Como  sunsets,  ascents 
ot"  Vesuvius,  Texa?i  ))lains  on  fleet  mustangs,  yachting 
adown  tlie  picturesque  coast  of  Elaine,  camping  out  on 
the  Adii'ondacks,  mountain  trout  baked  in  cream,  and 
all  the  other  delights  of  his  existence,  and  built  this 
])retty  villa  in  JJrightbrook,  and  came  down  hero 
in  the  montli  of  roses,  wilh  eight  '"in  help,"  and  a 
pretty,  pallid,  invalid  wife — foreswore  all  wild,  wan- 
dering ways  forever,  so  tliat  little  Olga  might  run 
■wild  among  the  clover  and  buttercups,  and  from  much 
fresh  air,  atid  sweet  milk,  and  strawberries  picked  with 
lier  own  taper  fingers,  grow  up  to  blooming  health  and 
maidenhood. 

Colonel  Ventnor — lie  liad  served  with  distinction 
in  the  far  West — was  a  very  rich  man,  and  tho 
desceiKhmt  of  a  family  of  very  rich  men.  Such  a 
thing  as  a  poor  Ventnor  perhaps  liad  never  been  heard 
o.  They  v.-ere  wealthy  always,  liigh-bred  always, 
h(."  ^ing  enviable  positions  under  government  always, 
never  defiling  their  patrician  lingers  with  trade  or 
commerce  of  any  kind,  and,  in  a  general  way,  consid- 
*iring  their  status  and  suj)eriority  to  all  earthly  pur- 
suits, with  quite  as  many  brains  as  was  good  for  them. 
Of  these  mighty  men,  Colonel  Raymond  Livingston 
Ventnor  was  the  last,  and  little  Olga,  in  her  Swiss 
tucks  and  Leghorn  sun-hat,  the  very  last  dauLihter  of 
the  bouse,  born,  if  ever  embryo  belle  and  heiress  was 
yet,  with  a  golden  spoon  in  her  mouth. 

"We  must  marry  her  to  Frank  Livingston  in  about 
ten  years  from  now,"  said  the  family  conclave,  "and 
so  keep  everything  in  the  family.  Pity  she  is  not  a 
boy — too  bad  to  sink  the    Ventnor  for  Livingston^ 


16 


WHICH    BKGINS   AT   THE   BEGINNING. 


'!  !i 


but  Frank  can  add  the  old  name  by  and  by,  when  he 
marries  0]ga." 

P('rha})s  tins  imperial  ukase  was  not  road  in  form 
to  the  bride-eloct,  but  it  met  the  approval  of  papa  and 
mamma,  and  certainly  was  announced  to  the  future 
bridegroom,  a  slim,  very  pretty  young  fellow  of 
eighteen  or  so,  with  a  passion  for  base-ball,  and  another 
for  pencil  drawing.  lie  was  really  a  bright  lad,  and 
at  this  age  quite  a  wonder  to  see  in  the  way  of  tall- 
Tiess,  and  slimness,  and  str.nightness.  And  he  only 
grinned  when  his  fond  mamma  folded  him  with  effu- 
sion in  her  arms,  and  announced,  with  joyful  tears, 
that  he — he — her  Francis — her  darling  boy,  and  tiot 
Anselm  Van  Dyaok,  nor  Philip  Vandewelode,  had 
been  chosen  for  the  distinguished  position  of  prince 
consort  to  the  lieiress  of  many  Vcntnors. 

"  And  you  need  never  lower  your  family,  nor  slave 
yourself  to  death  painting  pictures  now,  my  dearest, 
dearest  boy  !  Olga  Ventnor's  fortune  must  be  simply 
immense — immexse  !" 

"  All  right,  mother,"  says  Frank,  still  grinning  ; 
"  and  when  is  it  to  be — this  week  or  next  ?  Or  am  I 
to  wait  until  she  grows  up  ?  I  am  on  hand  always  ; 
when  you  want  me  phrase  to  ring  the  bell." 

"  P^rank,  this  is  no  theme  for  jesting.  They  will 
not  permit  it  for  at  least  ten  years.  Say  her  educa- 
tion is  finished  at  eighteen,  then  two  years  of  travel, 
then  the  wedding.  Meantime,  whenever  you  see  little 
Olga  be  just  as  nice  as  possible — impressions  made  at 
her  age  often  last  through  life." 

Frank  throws  back  his  head,  and  laughs  immoder- 
ately. "Did  I  ever  dream  in  my  wildest  dime  novel 
days  it  would  coiue  to  this?     Did  I  ever  think  that. 


WHICH   BEGINS   AT  THE   BEGINNING. 


17 


like  Dick  Swiveller,  I  would  have  a  young  woman 
growing  up  for  mo?  Don't  wear  tliat  face,  mother,  or 
you  will  be  the  death  of  me.  I'll  run  down  to  Bright- 
brook  next  week,  if  you  like,  and  do  a  little  stroke  of 
courting,  and  hunt  butterflies  with  the  little  dear  until 
the  end  of  July." 

So  Frank  runs  down,  and  is  made  welcome  at  the 
pretty  while  villa,  all  embowered  in  pink  roses  and 
scented  honeysuckle,  like  a  cottage  in  a  picture,  and 
by  none  more  gladly  than  little  Olga.  All  that  mere 
money  can  buy  is  hers  ;  but  even  money  lias  its  limits 
as  to  power,  and  it  cannot  buy  her  a  playmate  and 
constant  companion  of  her  own  ago.  The  child  is 
a  little  lonely,  surrounded  by  love  and  S])lendor. 
Brother  or  sister  she  has  never  had,  mamma  is  always 
ailing  and  lying  on  the  sofa,  papa  is  away  a  great 
deal,  Jeannette,  the  bonne,  is  lazy  and  stupid,  and  says 
it  is  too  hot  to  play,  and  in  all  Brightbrook  there  is  no 
one  this  dainty,  little  curled  darling  may  stoop  to 
romp  with.  Yes,  by-the-bye,  there  is  one,  just  one,  of 
whom  more  anon,  but  she  is  not  always  available.  So 
the  little  princess,  forgetting  the  repose  which  marks 
the  caste  of  Vere  de  Vere,  utters  a  scream  of  joy  at 
sight  of  Cousin  Frank,  and  flings  herself  absolutely 
plump  into  his  arms. 

"  Oh  !  I  am  so  glad  !"  she  cries  out.  "  Oh  !  Frank, 
how  nice  of  you  to  come.  I've  been  wanting  you  every 
day  of  my  life  since  we  came  down  here — oh,  ever  and 
ever  so  !  Mamma,  you  know  I've  been  wanting  Cousin 
Frank." 

Mamraa  smiles.  Frank  lifts  the  little  white-robed, 
golden-haired,  rose-cheeked  vision  up  higher  than  hia 
head,  kisses  her,  and  with  her  perched  on  his  shoulder, 
3 


^S         Wincir  I3EGIXS  at  rrrr-    . 

Von.„„.  , em,,  ,,„  !'""<!    be.     JI,-,.    (;„,„„„, 

'','-   -^i"    Cai,,  a         '      ,  ::'    •^"■■';  "7  >'-l^  in  h„ 
P'c'.-isoii  'CMirac's   1,01-   book,  very    ,vell 

Bn-g,u'b,.o:k''::„:,::;^  j;:^!:?",'  •,?' .  ';"•"  «''>"«""-•• 

t'-n'S  iVom  whicl,  it  tZ,-,  '"'"   '"•^•''"'^   ■'♦"'I 

^''•■'■■P.y,  aaistic  fancies,  a,„l  ,1, .  ?'''^''  '""""'    '« 

po<"'   'i-al  of  l,i.,  ti,ne        „    "  ^",""=  f^'"«»-  «Po,„I.,  a 

™'-'    iiUle   I,a„cl-,„ai,        T"   ''"'""".V  "^7  ''i,  .,,.. 
"■"■■'d  .•.,Io,.o.,  ,,e,,  „,,     ;    ',„f  "'7'^«   «'S'^-      All    tl,e 
'  -  l..-.n.l»or„e.s,,  t  «  c  e     ,-        ."'T"  '''""''■•      ">-  '» 
."-'  -*'•     He  l.aints        "^      ;'';"7'  """-"  '•"  all 
'■/'■"""Pl>    o„    hi,   s1,o„m'  '    "''""'•■"'^■'■•■"''ft 

'''■"'!^i"g  »o„.s,  ,,„  tea  1  :    ,  '       '  ,""«'   ''^■■'   ««-™an        ' 
-'^''  fi-sl.,  I,el4e,  1  H    ::  '°  '■■';'  '"'■•  '-"k  and 

''"  i'-tn,et»  ,,e,.  i„   the     ,    ^f  "'""'''.'''  '"  ""^  »'oo,:,., 

«'^"l>!y  because  she  is    Z   '  f '"'  '"^  ''>"gl"^  at- 

-•'d.and  ho  is  fond  oft,     'r'''"'r''^'-'"'»"  ■"  "- 
y— ten   yea,.,   fo,.soo,l       ''«";.    ''''"'y  '-'•  >"  '- 


e<''>tu,-y  at  once,  and  l,ave  d 


'y  not  s 


teen -ten   years   look 


fo 


one  with  it  ?    He 


ay  half  a 


s   a   long    perswecti 


'■ever,  to  eves  snv„„,„  '    ^^ 

0,.f,  1 ^'    seventeen  years  old 


Octob^ 


IS  sevcn- 
i^e,   a   little 


whistling  drift  of  mo  V  ^'''*^   ^^^^^ 

^  ""U  01  maple  leaves,  th...  i.:...... 


blast 


and 


e«,  these  birds  of  summer 


H 


WHICH   r,EGINS    AT   THE   BEGIXiNING. 


19 


)tembcr. 
nis  and 
3  spai'k- 
Fi.s}iii)(if 

ited    to 
peiids  a 
no  and 
bis  do- 
ll   the 
IIo  is 
f  in  all 
aloft 
rman 
and 
oods, 
hor 
rains 

Jiis 
at — 
the 
ten 
a 
on- 
tie 

nd 
»er 


f 


forsake  their  fragile  nost,  and  flutter  back  to  the 
stately  family  home  of  the  Ventnors  on  Madison 
avenue.  The  pretty  white  villa,  with  its  roses,  and 
verandas,  and  conservatories,  and  sun-dial,  is  shut  up, 
and  only  an  old  man  and  his  dauufhter  k'ft  to  care  for 
it  until  the  next  June  honeysuekK's  blow. 

Little  Olga  goes  back  to  her  books  and  her  piano, 
under  an  all-accomplished  governess  ;  Frank  goes  in 
for  })ainting,  and  takes  a  trip  to  the  everglades  of 
Florida.  Early  next  summer  the  Ventnor  family  re- 
turn, making  a  mighty  stir  throughout  Brightbrook, 
and  in  due  course  down  comes  Mr.  Frank. 

A  year  lias  made  its  mark  on  this  young  man. 
His  line  tenor  voice  is  changing  to  an  ugly  bass,  a 
callow  down  is  forming  on  his  upi)er  lip,  and  is  loved 
and  caressed  as  a  youthful  mother  may  her  first-born 
babe.  He  is  absent  a  great  deal  from  the  cottage,  and 
be  very  seldom  takes  Olga  with  him  anywhere  now. 

Nobody  knows  where  he  spends  his  time.  Olga  is 
the  only  one  who  inquires  ;  Olga,  piqued  and  pouting, 
yet  too  proud  even  at  eleven  to  let  hira  see  how  much 
she  cares. 

"Where  have  you  been  noioP^^  she  will  ask. 

"Oh,  up  the  village  !" 

It  is  his  invariable  answer,  and  it  being  a  dull  littlo 
village,  and  Mr.  Francis  of  a  lively  turn,  and  fond  of  life, 
even  rough  and  rollicking  life,  it  is  a  little  puzzling. 
Olga  does  not  like  it  at  all — he  is  not  nearly  so  nice  as 
on  the  preceding  year,  he  leaves  her  to  Jeannette  and 
mamma,  and  amuses  himself  verv  well  without  her. 
The  absences  grow  more  frequent  and  prolonged.  He 
stays  away  whole  days,  and  his  latch-key  ojjons  the 
hall-door  gently  far  into  the  dim  watches  of  the  night. 


i 


20 


now    LITTLE    OLOA    GETS   LOST. 


Lying  aw.iko,  looking  at  tlio  snmmor  moonlight  steal- 
ing wliiti'ly  in,  the  child  will  hear  that  cautious  click, 
that  light  footstep  passing  the  door,  and  pi'esently  tho 
litthf  Swiss  clock  on  the  mantel  will  chime  out,  silvery 
and  sharp,  two  or  three.  Three  in  the  morning,  and 
up  at  the  village  !  It  is  odd.  But  presently  the  mys- 
tery is  solved  lor  Olga  in  quite  a  sudden  and  awful 
way. 


*•» 


CHAPTER  III. 


now   LITTLE    OLGA    GETS   LOST. 


ti 


'  I. 


SIN  Frank  ! 


» 


There  is  no  reply.  Stretched  on  tho 
sun-sf.eeped  grass,  his  straw  liat  pulled 
over  his  face,  his  long  length  casting  a 
prodigious  shadow  in  the  afternoon  sunshine,  Cousin 
Frank  is  leagues  away  in  the  lovely  land  of  dreams. 

"  Frank  !  Cousin  Frank  !  Frank  Livingston  !  Oh, 
dear!"  sighs  Olga,  impatiently.  "No  w^onder  he  is 
asleep.  It  struck  three  this  morning  bef  )rc — Frank  ! 
Oh  !  how  stupid  you  are  !     Do,  do  wake  up  !" 

Thus  adjured,  ".nd  further  urged  by  the  pointed 
too  of  a  most  Cinderella-like  shoe  of  blue  kid,  Frank 
consents  to  slowly  and  lazily  open  his  handsome  blue 
eyes. 

"Oh  !"  she  says,  with  a  pout,  "at  last !  You  are 
worse  than  the  Seven  Sleepers.  Here  you  have  been 
fast  asleep  for  the  past  two  hours,  and  all  that  tire- 
some time  I  have  been  waiting  here.  I  think  it  is 
horrid  of  you,  Frank  Livingston,  to  act  so!" 


now   LITTLE    OLGA    GETS   LOST. 


21 


'i.i,'lit  stofil- 
-ioiis  click, 
'«i?Mtly  tlio 
ut,  silvery 
■iiiiif,',  and 
'  the  mvs- 
"d  awful 


J  on  the 
t  pullod 
istiijg  a 

Cousin 

ams. 
n!    Oh, 
r  he  is 
Frank  I 

)ointed 
Frank 
e  blue 

)u  are 
been 
tire- 
it  is 


"To  act  so  !     To  act  lK)^v,  fairest  of  fairy  cousins? 

"Wliat  has  your  Frank,  the  most  abject  of  thy  slaves, 

'   Lady  Olga,  been   doing  now,  to  evoke  your   frown  ? 

There  is  no  harm  in  taking  a  snooze  on  the  grass,  is 

there?"  says  Frank,  with  a  prolonged  yawn. 

Miss  Olga  stands  beside  iiim,  slim,  straight,  white, 
blonde,  pouting,  and  very,  very  pretty. 

"There  is  harm  in  never  coming  home  until  lialf- 
past  three  in  the  morning  every  night.  If  you  didn't 
do  that  you  wouldn't  sleep  on  the  grass  all  the  next 
afternoon.     Wliat  would  mamma  say?" 

He  rises  suddenly  on  his  elbow  and  looks  at  her. 
Pretty  well  this,  for  a  demoiselle  of  eleven  !  She 
stjinds  rolling  the  gravel  with  one  blue  boot-tip,  lier 
wide-brimmed  leghorn  shading  her  face,  the  long, 
almost  flaxen  ringlets  falling  to  her  slender  waist,  her 
delicate  lips  pouting,  the  light  figure  upright  as  a  dart. 

"  Princess  Olga,"  Frank  says,  after  a  pause  and  a 
stare,  "  what  an  uncommonly  pretty  little  thing  you 
are  getting  to  be  !  I  must  make  a  sketch  of  you  just 
as  you  stand  ;  tliat  sunshine  on  your  yellow  curls  and 
white  dress  is  capital  !  Do  not  stir,  please,  my  sketch- 
book is  here ;  I  will  dasb  you  off  in  all  your  loveliness 
in  the  twinkling  of  a  bed-post !" 

Frank's  sketch-book  and  Frank  himself  are  never 
far  apart.  He  takes  it  up  now,  as  it  lies  at  his  elbow, 
selects  a  fair  and  unspotted  page,  points  a  broad  black 
pencil,  and  begins. 

"Just  as  you  are — do  not  move.  *Just  as  I  am, 
and  waiting  not,  to  rid  myself  of  one — some  sort  of 
blot,' — how  is  it  the  hymn  goes?  And  so  you  heard 
n]i:  come  in  last  night?  Now  who  would  think  such 
pretty  little  pink  ears  could  be  so  sharp  !" 


i  I 


i\-    \ 


22 


now    LITTLK   OLr.A    c;  K'lS    LOST. 


**  LnHt  iiif^'lit !  "  j)oiitH  Ol^'ii :  "  thiH  inonnncf,  you 
inniri.     Hall'-i)!iHt  tlirco.     I  liourd  tlio  clock  slriko." 

"  J)()u't  In'licvo  tlio  clock — it  is  a  foul  Hliiiuloror. 
Those  liltlo  jcwolcd  jinicnickH  tluit  j)l!iy  tuiifs  before 
ilicy  strike;  uhvfiys  tell  lies.  Did  you  tell  iiiaiuiiui  about 
it  lliis  inorniiijjf,  Oily?" 

She  Hint's  hack  her  head,  and  her  blue  eyes — very 
like  Frank's  own — kindle. 

"  Tell  mamma  1  I  am  not  a  tell-ttile,  Cousin 
Frank." 

The  young  fellow,  sketching  busily,  draws  a  breath 
of  relief. 

"  JNIost  gracious  princess,  you  are  a  little  tninip.  I 
ask  pardon.  Turn  your  head  just  a  hair-breadtli  this* 
wiy.  Ah!  thanks — that  will  do.  WeJl,  now,  Olga,  I 
WOK  out  rather  late  ;  but  I  met  some — some  fellows,  and 
we  played  a  game  or  two,  and  so " 

"Were  you  u\)  the  village?" 

"  Yes,  up  the  village.  You  see,  Briglitbrook  is  such 
a  deadly-lively  sort  of  ]^lace  at  the  best,  and  a  fellow 
must  amuse  himself  a  little  in  some  way.  And  that 
reminds  me — I  have  an  engagement  at  five.  What's 
the  tiuie,  Oily  ?  just  look  at  my  watch,  will  you?" 

She  obeys  after  a  moment — a  moment  in  which 
wistful  longing  and  precocious  pride  struggle  for 
mastery.     Then  slie  stoops  and  looks. 

"A  (piarter  of  live.     But  you  said " 

A  ])ause. 

"  Well,  I  said " 

"  You  said — you  promised  Leo  Abbott  yesterday 
that  you  would  drive  me  over  there  this  afternoon,  and 
we  would  have  croquet  and  tea." 

"  Oh,  did  I  ?"  carelessly.     "  Well,  you  nuist  let  me 


now    M'lTl.K   ol.dA    OKI'S     I.OST. 


23 


n,Qf,  you 
e." 

l.'iiHloror. 
s  before 
iia  about 

es — very 

CoiiHin 

I  breath 

limp.     I 

(lib  tins' 

01..-a,  X 

nvs,  aud 


is  such 
follow 

«1   that 

VVhat'.s 

iV" 
which 

;le   for 


te  relay 
In,  and 

let  mo 


f 


ofT,  Oily,  aiitl  make  my  oxcMises  to  little  Leo.  Vpoii 
my  honor,  I  eamiot  maiiacfo  it — awfully  sorry  all  tho 
t^aine.  Dut  it  need  not  kccj)  you,  you  know  ;  your 
papa  will  drive  you,  or  Peters  will." 

Peters  is  head  eoaehmaii,  the  safest  of  ehariot(»ors. 
Papa  is  always  willinu^  to  drive  his  darlint,'  anywhere. 
JJiit  ()lt,'a  Ventnor  turns  hastily  away,  and  the  e!lildi^h 
eyes  that  look  at  the  seltin;^  sun  are  full  of  tears  she 
is  loo  pi'oiitl  to  h't,  fall. 

"There  I"  Frank  says,  after  live  minutes  more  de- 
voted to  the  sketch  ;  "there  you  arr,  as  lar^e  as  life, 
hut  not  half  so  handsijriK'.  IK'i'e  it  is  for  a  kei'p>ake, 
Oiuja.  When  you  are  a  tall,  fascinating'  youiiLj  lady 
— a  brilliant  belle,  and  all  that — it  will  help  to  re- 
mind you  of  how  you  looked  when  a  chickabiddy  of 
eleven." 

lie  tears  out  the  leaf,  scrawls  under  it,  "Princess 
Olya,  with  the  love  of  the  most  loyal  of  her  lieges," 
and  hands  it  to  her.  She  takes  it,  her  Iii)s  a  little 
comjU'essed,  pique,  ])ain  in  her  eyes,  plainly  enouu^h  in 
spite  of  her  pride,  if  he  cares  to  look.  l>ut  I'^rank  has 
a  happy  knack  of  never  lookinuj,  nor  wishinL]j  to  look, 
below  the  surface  of  thiufifs,  and  he  has  soHiethiiiL^  to 
thiidv  of  besides  his  little  cousin's  whims  just  at 
present. 

"I  am  off,"  he  says,  jumpinpf  up.  "  AtmI — look 
liere.  Oily — go  to  sleep  like  a  good  little  thing  when 
you  go  to  bed,  and  don't  lie  awake  o'  nights  in  this 
Micked  way  counting  the  clock.  It  will  bring  gray 
hairs  and  wrinkles  before  you  reach  your  twelfth 
birthday.  You  will  wake  u})  some  morning  ;ind  lind, 
like  Marie  Antoinette,  all  these  long  curls  turm  d  froa 
gold  to  silver  in  a  single  night." 


24 


now    Lri'ILlO   OLCIA    OKTS     LOflT. 


K     « 


I     ,  f 


'!l    f 


it 


lie  j)ulls  out  one  of  tlio  lont^  tresses,  fine  as  flosa 
silk,  to  .'in  fibsui'd  Iciii^th,  as  lie  speaks. 

"And  besides,  I  am  pjointJj  to  reform,  to  turn  ovei 
a  new  leaf,  mimbers  of  new  leaves,  to  become  a  jijood 
boy,  and  «^o  to  bed  at  ten.  So  say  nothing  to  nobody, 
Oily,  and,  al)Ove  all,  above  cverythincj,  shut  those  blue 
jieepers  the  moment  your  head  is  on  the  pillow,  and 
never  open  them,  nor  the  dear  little  pink  ears,  until  six 
the  next  mornini;." 

He  gives  the  pink  ear  an  afTectionato  and  half- 
anxious  tweak,  smiles  at  the  grave  face  of  the  child, 
flings  his  hat  on,  and  dciparts. 

'J'he  little  girl  stands  watching  him  until  lie  is  out 
of  sight,  then,  with  a  deej)  sigh  that  would  have  in- 
finitely amused  INIaster  Frank  could  he  liave  heard, 
turns  for  consolation  to  the  drawing.  Is  she  really  so 
pretty  as  this?  IIow  clever  Cousin  Frank  must  be  to 
Bketch  so — dash  ofT  things,  as  he  calls  it — all  in  a 
moment.  She  has  it  yet,  yellow,  faded,  stored  away 
among  the  souvenirs  treasured  most. 

"  Madame  votre  mere  says  will  mademoiselle  not 
come  for  one  leetlo  walk  before  her  supper?"  s.ays  the 
high  Norman  sing-song  voice  of  Jeannette,  aj)pearing 
from  the  house  ;  "  it  will  give  ma'amselle  an  appetite 
for  her  tartine  and  strawberries." 

"  Very  well,  Jeannette.  Yes,  I  will  go.  Here, 
t.'ike  this  up  to  my  room.  I  will  go  on  this  way. 
You  can  follow  me." 

So,  with  a  slow  and  lingering  step,  the  little  heiress 
of  many  Ventnors  sots  ofT.  She  is  a  somewhat  preco- 
cious little  girl,  old-fashioned,  as  it  is  phrased,  a  trifle 
piim  in  speech  and  manner,  except  now  and  then  when 
the   wild    child-nature    bursts    its    trammels,   and   she 


r?T. 


HOW    LITTLE   OLOA    OKTS     LOST. 


9d 


fmo  as  floss 

to  turn  over 
CO  mo  a  (jfood 
1^  to  nobody, 
ul  those  l)lun 
o  pillow,  Jviid 
cars,  until  six 

itc  and   lialf- 
of  the  child, 

mtil  he  is  out 
ould  havo  iii- 
^  havo  hoard, 
H  she  really  so 
ik  must  bo  to 
r,  it — all  ill  a 
,  stored  away 

emoiselle  not 
,or  ?"  says  the 
|tte,  appearing 
,e  an  appetite 

|ll  go.      Here, 
on   this   way. 

little  heiress 
lewhat  preco- 
irasod,  a  trifle 
md  then  when 
nels,   and   she 


I 


runs,  and  sings,  and  romps  as  wildly  as  the  s(piirroU 
nho  chases.  .lust  at  ihis  momont  she  is  under  :i  clouil. 
(.'ousin  Frank  has  woundod  and  disappointed  hor.  IIo 
will  not  toll  lior  where  ho  goes  or  what  lie  does  all 
these  long  hours  of  absence. 

*'  Up  the  village"  is  vague  and  unsatisfactory  to  a 
degree  ;  ho  has  brok<'U  his  promise  about  taking  her  to 
AI)bott  Woo<l,  and  she  likes  to  play  cro(piot  with 
(tcoII"  ami  J.oo  AI)bott.  Frank's  promises,  she  is  bo- 
ginning  to  discover,  are  very  pio-crns6y  indeed  ;  ho 
makes  them  with  lavish  prodigality,*and  breaks  them 
without  a  sh.adow  of  scruple.  All  these  things  are 
preying  on  Miss  Vontnor's  eleven-year-old  mind  for 
the  first  few  minutes,  and  make  hor  stop  lagging  and 
'.jor  manner  listless.  'I'hen  a  brilliant  butterfly  swings 
past  her,  and  she  starts  in  pursuit — then  a  squirrel 
darts  out  of  a  woodland  path  and  challenges  lier  to  a 
race — then  a  tempting  cluster  of  flame-colored  marsh 
flowers  catches  hor  eye,  and  she  makes  a  detour  to  get 
them — thou  she  finds  herself  in  a  thicket  of  raspberry 
bushes,  and  begins  to  pluck  and  eat.  Overhead  there 
is  a  hot,  hot  sun,  sinking  in  a  blazing  western  sky  like 
a  lake  of  molten  gohb 

In  these  woody  dolls  there  are  coolness  and  shadow, 
sweet  forest  smells,  the  chirp  of  birds,  the  myriad 
sounds  of  sylvan  silence.  A  breeze  is  rising,  too.  She 
goes  on  and  on,  eating,  singing,  chasing  birds  and  but- 
terflies, rabbits  and  field  mice,  all  live  things  that 
cross  her  path. 

All  at  once  she  pauses.  Where  is  Jeannette  ?  She 
lias  been  rambling  more  than  an  hour,  she  is  far  from 
home,  the  sun  has  set,  she  is  tired,  the  place  is  strange, 
she  has  never  been  here  before.     Her  dress  is  soiled, 


!  .i  ' 


w  ■ 


26 


HOW    LITTLE   OLGA    GETS    LOST. 


I,  'S 


her  boots  arc  muddy  ;  woods,  trees,  marshes  are  around 
her — no  houses,  no  people.  Oh  !  where  is  she — where 
is  her  bonne? 

"  Jeannette  !    Jeannette  !"      She    stops    and    cries 


aloud  :  "Jeannette  !  wiiere  are  you?" 

Her  shrill,  childish  voice  echoes  down  the  dim 
woodland  aisles.  Only  that,  and  the  gathering  still- 
ness of  the  lonesome  eveninsjc  in  the  wood. 


<( 


Jeannette  !  Jeannette  !  Jeannette  ! 


I") 


In  wild  affright  the  young  voice  peals  forth  it« 
piteous  cry.  But  only  the  fitful  sighing  of  the  twi- 
light wind,  only  the  mournful  rustle  of  the  leaves, 
only  the  faint  call  of  the  little  mother  birds  in  their 
nests,  answer  her.  Then  she  knows  the  truth — she  is 
lost  ! 

Lost  in  the  woods,  far  from  any  habitation,  and 
night  close  at  hand.  Jeannette  has  lingered  behind  to 
gossip  ;  she,  Olga,  has  gone  heedlessly  on  ;  now  it  is 
coming  night  ;  she  is  alone,  and  lost  in  the  black, 
whispering,  awful,  lonely  woods  ! 

She  stands  still  and  looks  around  her.  Overhead 
there  is  a  gray  and  pearl-tinted  sky,  very  bright  still 
in  the  west,  but  with  a  star  or  two  gleaming  over  the 
tree-tops.  In  the  forest  it  is  already  pitch-dark.  In 
the  open,  where  she  now  stands,  it  will  be  light  for 
half  an  hour  yet.  To  the  right  spreads  the  pine 
woods,  whispering,  whispering  mysteriously  in  the 
solemn  darkening  hush  ;  to  the  left  is  a  waste  of  dry 
and  dreary  marsh  land,  intermediate  and  blankly  gray 
in  the  gloaming.  No  house,  no  living  thing  to  be  seen 
far  or  near ! 


,OST. 


A   WILD   GIRL   OF    THE    WOODS. 


27 


ihes  are  around 
is  she — where 

ops    and    cries 

own  the  dim 
gathering  still- 

d. 

I) 

eals  forth  \t§ 
g  of  the  twi- 
)f  the  leaves, 
birds  in  their 
truth — she  is 

abitation,  and 
red  behind  to 
)n  ;  now  it  is 
in  the  blacic, 

Overhead 
y  briglit  still 
ng  over  the 
ch-dark.  In 
be  light  for 
ds  the  pine 
usly  in  the 
I'aste  of  dry 
lankly  gray 
g  to  be  seen 


CHAPTER  IV. 

A   WILD   GIRL   OF  THE   WOODS. 

IIAT  shall  she  do?  The  child  if)  not  a 
coward  —  she  has  been  so  sheltered,  so 
loved,  so  encompasscQ  by  care  all  her 
short  life,  that  fear  is  a  sensation  almost 
unknown.  If  it  were  noonday  she  would  not  fear  now, 
she  would  wander  on  and  on,  calling  for  Jeannette 
until  some  one  came  to  her  aid,  some  one  who  would 
be  sure  to  take  care  of  her  and  bring  her  home.  But 
the  gathering  darkness  is  about  her,  the  tall  blact 
trees  stand  up  like  threatening  giants,  the  deep  recess- 
es of  the  wood  are  as  so  many  gaping  dragon's  jaws, 
ready  to  swallow  her  up.  Perhaps  there  are  ghosts  in 
that  jjrim  forest — Jeannette  has  a  wholesome  horror 
of  revenants,  and  her  little  mistress  shares  it.  Oh  ! 
what  shall  she  do  ?  Where  is  papa  ?  where  is  Frank, 
mamma,  Jeannette,  any  one — any  one  she  knows,  to 
come  to  the  rescue  ?  She  stands  there  in  that  breath- 
loss,  awesome  solitude,  a  panic-stricken,  lonely  little 
figure,  in  her  soiled  dress,  and  muddy,  blue  kid  boots. 
"Jeannette!  Jeannette!  JEANNETTE!" 
The  terrified  voice  pierces  wildly  the  stillness,  its 
desolate  echo  comes  back  to  her,  and  frightens  her 
more  and  more.  Oh!  ichat  shall  she  do?  Must  she 
stay  here  in  this  awful,  awful  place  until  morning ! 
What  will  become  of  her?  Are  there  bears,  or  lions, 
or  robbers  in  that  spectral  forest  ?  She  has  on  a  neck- 
lace of  gold  beads — will  they  kill  her  for  that  ? 


23 


A   WILD   GIRL   OF    THE     WOODS. 


U 


"Jeannette!    Joatinettc  !"    she   cries,    in    sobbino; 

,  ,  )Ht  no  Jeannette  answers.  She  is  indeed  h^st, 
hopelessly  lost,  and  the  dark,  dreadful  night  is  already 
here. 

All  this  time  she  lias  been  standing  still,  now  a 
sudden  panic  seizes  her.  Fiery  eyes  glare  at  her  out 
of  the  vast  depths  of  the  wood,  strange  weird  moans, 
and  voices  in  pain,  come  to  her  from  its  gloomy  vast- 
ness.  She  turns  wild  with  fright,  and  flies,  flies  for 
life  from  the  haunted  spot. 

She  runs  headlong — how  long  or  how  far  she  never 
knows.  Panting,  gasping,  slipping,  falling,  flying  on  ! 
She  does  not  cry  out,  she  cannot,  she  is  all  spent  and 
breathless.  Something  terrific  is  behind  her,  in  hot 
pursuit,  ghost,  goblin,  fiery  dragon — who  knew  what  ? 
stretching  forth  skeleton  hands  to  catch  her — a  phan- 
tom of  horror  and  despair !  And  still  the  silvery 
twilight  deepens,  the  stars  shine  out,  and  still  she 
rushes  on,  a  wildly-flying,  small  white  figure  in  the 
lovely  summer  dusk. 

At  last — overtasked  nature  can  bear  no  more,  she 
falls  headlong  on  the  soft,  turfy  ground,  her  eyes 
closed,  her  hands  clenched,  and  lies  panting  and  still. 
Is  she  dying,  she  wonders  ;  she  feels  dizzy  and  sick — 
is  she  going  to  die  far  from  papa  and  maxima,  and 
Frank,  alone  in  this  lonesome  place  ?  How  sorry  they 
will  all  be  to-morrow,  when  they  come  upon  her  lying 
like  this,  all  cold  and  dead.  She  thinks  of  the  Babes 
in  the  Wood,  and  wonders  if  the  robins  will  co^'er  her 
with  loaves. 

"  Hullo  !" 

It  is  no  voice  of  ghost  or  goblin.  It  is  unmistak- 
ably a  humrn  salute,  and  very  close  by.     She  lifts 


'"It!* 


DS. 


A   WILD   GIIIL   OF    THE    WOODS. 


29 


,  in  sobbing 
s  indeed  lost, 
^lit  is  already 

y  still,  now  a 
re  at  her  out 
weird  moans, 
gloomy  vast- 
flies,  flies  for 

far  she  never 
II g,  flying  on  ! 
all  spent  and 
d  her,  in  hot 
3  knew  what  ? 
her — a  phan- 
11  the  silvery 
and  still  she 
fiiiure  in  the 

no  more,  she 

ind,   her  eyes 

injr  and  still. 

Izy  and  sick — 

maipma,  and 

w  sorry  they 

Ipon  her  lying 

of  the  Babes 

kvill  co^'er  her 


IS  unra 


istak- 
She  lifts 


herself  silently,  too  utterly  exhausted  to  reply,  and 
sees  staM<ling  beside  her,  in  the  dusk  of  the  warm 
iii'^lit,  the  figure  of — a  girl?  Is  it  a  girl?  Siie  puts 
buck  the  tangled  golden  locks,  and  gazes  up  in  a 
dazed,  bewildered  way,  at  this  apparition. 

"  Hullo  !"  says  the  voice,  again.  It  is  not  a  pleas- 
ant voice  ;  the  face  that  looks  down  at  her  is  not  a 
pleasant  face.  It  is  a  girl,  of  twelve  or  so,  in  a  scant 
skirt,  a  boy's  blouse  belted  with  a  strap  of  leather,  a 
shaggy  head  of  unkempt  reddish  hair,  a  thin,  eager, 
old-young  face,  long  bare  legs,  and  bare  feet. 

"Hullo!" 

For  the  third  time  she  hails  the  prostrate  Olga 
with  this  salute,  in  a  high-pitched,  liarsh  tone,  and  for 
the  third  time  receiving  no  reply,  varies  it : 

"  I  say,  you  !  Ye  ain't  deef,  are  ye  ?  Can't  ye 
speak?  Who  are  you?  What  are  you  doin'  here, 
this  time  o'  night?" 

Still  no  reply.  The  rasping  voice,  the  scowling 
look,  the  wild  air  of  the  unexpected  figure,  have 
stricken  Olga,  mute  with  a  new  terror.  No  one  has 
ever  looked  at  her,  or  spoken  to  her  like  this,  in  all 
her  life  before. 

"  Deef  are  ye,  or  sulky — which  ?  Git  up — git  up, 
I  say,  or  I'll  make  ye  !  Say,  you  !  who  are  you  ? 
W^hat  are  ye  about  here,  lying  on  the  ground  ?  Why 
— lor  !  ef  it  ain't  the  Ventnor  gal !" 

She  has  taken  a  stride  toward  Olga,  who  springs 
to  her  feet  instantly.  They  stand  confronting  one 
another  in  the  dim  light,  the  little  white  heiress  shak- 
ing with  fatigue  and  fear,  the  fierce-looking,  wild 
creature  glancing  at  her  with  eyes  like  a  cat. 

Say!     If  ye  don't  speak  I'll  scratch   ye,  I'll   bite 


(( s;:. 


I; 


I  * 


Nl    I 


lit 


III  III  K 

"lii 


■ 


f  ■ 


80 


A   WILD   GIRL   OF    THE    WOODS. 


ye — I'll  pull  your  ugly  long  hair  out  by  the   roots ! 
Ain't  you  the  Ventnor  gal  ?     Come  now — say  I" 

She  makes  a  threatening  step  near.  The  poor 
little  princess  puts  up  two  imploring  hands. 

"  Oh  !  please,  please  don't  bite  me  !  I  don't  mean 
any  harm.  I  am  only  lost,  and  fell  down  here  !"  A 
great  sob.  "  I  am  Olga  Ventnor,  and  I  wart  to  go 
home — oh  !  I  want  to  go  home  !" 

She  breaks  down  in  a  great  passion  of  sobs.  The 
impish-looking  child  before  her  bursts  into  a  disord- 
ant,  jeering  laugh. 

"Slic  wants  to  go  home!  Oh,  she  wants  to  go 
home  !  Oh  !  please  somebody  come  and  take  this 
young  lady  home  !  Look  at  her !  Ain't  she  putty 
with  her  old  white  dress,  and  muddy  shoes,  and  shiny 
beads.  Say,  you  !  give  me  them  beads  this  very  min- 
ute, or  I'll  snatch  'em  off  your  neck." 

With  rapid,  trembling  fingers,  the  child  unfastens 
the  necklace,  and  holds  it  out  to  her  tormentor. 

"  What  business  have  you,  you  stuck-up  little  pea- 
cock !"  continues  the  imp,  wrenching,  savagely,  the 
costly  trinket  asunder,  "  with  hair  down  to  your  waist, 
yellow  hair  too,  the  color  of  your  beads,  and  all  in  nasty 
ringlets  !  Oh,  lordy  !  we  think  ourselves  handsome, 
don't  we  ?  And  embroidery  and  lace  on  our  frocks,  and 
pink,  and  blue,  and  white  buttoned  boots,  with  ribbon 
bows  !  I^ve  seen  you.  And  a  French  servant  gal  to  wait 
on  us,  in  a  white  cap  and  apron  !  And  a  kerridge  to  ride 
in  !  And  white  feathers  in  our  hats,  and  kid  gloves, 
and  silk  stocken's  !  We're  a  great  lady,  ''oe  are,  till  we 
get  lost  in  the  woods,  and  then  we  can't  do  nothin'  but 
sit  down  and  blubber  like  a  great  calf  !  Why,  you 
little  devil !"  she  takes  a  step  nearer,  and  her  tone  and 


)ODS. 


A   WILD    GIRL   OF    THE   WOODS. 


31 


by  the   roots  ! 
,v — say  I" 
'ar.     The   poor 
inds. 

I  don't  mean 
)\vn  here  !"  A 
I  I  wart  to  go 

I  of  sobs.     The 
into  a  disc  ord- 

e  wants  to  go 

and    take   this 

lin't  she   putty 

loes,  and  shiny 

this  very  min- 

lild  unfastens 

mentor. 

c-up  little  pea- 

savagely,   the 

to  your  waist, 

md  all  in  nasty 

v^es  handsome, 

3ur  frocks,  and 

s,  with  ribbon 

ant  gal  to  wait 

erridge  to  ride 

d  kid  gloves, 

toe  are,  till  we 

do  nothin'  but 

!     Why,  you 

her  tone  and 


» 


look  grow  ferocious,  "  do  you  know  that  I  hate  you, 
that  I  would  like  to  tramp  on  you,  that  I  spit  at  you  !" 
which  she  docs — ''th;it  I  would  like  to  pull  out  every 
one  of  them  long  curls  by  tlie  roots  !  And  I'll  do  it, 
too,  before  I  lot  you  go  !" 

The  child  is  deadly  white,  deadly  still  with  fear. 
She  does  not  speak  or  move,  cry  out  or  turn  to  run — 
some  terrible  fascination  holds  her  there  brealijless 
and  spoil-bound. 

"  What  business  have  you,"  cries  the  creature,  with 
ever-increasing  ferocity,  "with  curls,  and  silk  dresses, 
and  gold  beads,  and  servants,  and  kerridges,  while 
vour  betters  are  tramping  about  bare-footed,  and  beat, 
and  abused,  and  starved?  You  ain't  no  better  nor 
me  !  You  ain't  so  good,  for  you're  a  coward,  and  a 
cry-baby,  and  a  little  fool  !  And  I'm  goin'  to  hev 
thorn  curls  !  And  if  you  screech  I'll  kill  you  !  I  will  ! 
I  hate  you — I've  hated  you  ever  since  I  sor  you  first !" 

She  darts  a  step  nearer.  Olga  recoils  a  step  back- 
ward. Still  she  makes  no  outcry,  no  attempt  to  run. 
That  fascination  of  intense  terror  holds  her  fast. 

"  I  know  you,  and  I  know  all  about  you,"  goes  on 
the  goblin,  "I  know  your  cousin,  Frank  Livingston  ; 
he  comes  to  our  house — he  gives  presents  to  Lora  and 
Liz  Sleaford.  He's  sweet  on  Lora,  he  is.  She  wears 
long  curls.  Lor  bless  you,  too.  Like  tar  ropes  tliey  ar(>, 
over  her  shoulders.  I'm  Sleaford's  Joanna  ;  if  I  don't 
kill  you,  you'll  know  me  nei*;  time,  won't  you?  And 
I  hate  you  because  you're  a  young  lady,  with  kerridges, 
and  Servants,  and  nothin'  to  do,  and  long  yellow  ring- 
lets down  your  stuck-up  back." 

The  ringlets  seem  to  be  the  one  unforgivable  sin  ; 
she  glares  at  them  vengefully  as  she  speaks. 


it 


Uii;  I 
I  I 


i   ! 


32  slkaford's. 


"I'm  goin'  to  pull  them  out.  I  never  thought  I'd 
hev  the  cliance.  There  ain't  nobody  liero  to  help  or 
come  if  you  yell.  I  don't  care  if  they  beat  me  to 
death  for  it,  or  hang  me — I'll  i)ull  'em  out !" 

She  springs  u[)on  her  victim  vviih  the  leap  of  a 
wild-3at,  and  buries  her  claw-like  lingei'S  in  the  pale 
gold  of  the  clustering  hair.  There  is  no  mistaking  her 
meaning — she  fully  intends  it  ;  her  fierce  eyes  blaze 
Avith  a  baleful  fire.  And  now,  indeed,  Olga  finds  her 
voice,  and  it  rings  out  shrill,  ])ealing,  agonized. 

"  Paj)a  !  papa  !     Oh,  ])a])a  !" 

"  Ili  !"  answ  ers  a  sharp  voice.  Then  a  sharper 
whistle  cuts  the  air.  "  Hi !  Who's  that  ?  Call 
again  !" 

"  Papa  !  papa !  pnpa !" 

There  is  a  crashing  among  the  trees,  and  not  a 
second  too  soon.  With  a  violent  ])ush,  and — an  oath 
— this  diabolical  Little  Barefoot  flings  her  victim  from 
her,  and  leaps  away  into  the  darkness  with  the  fleet- 
ness  of  a  fawn. 


■  ♦•♦ 


CHAPTER    V. 

sleaford's. 

T  is  not  papa  who  comes  rushing  to  the  res- 
cue, but  it  is  a  man  who  stoops  and  picks 
her  up — a  young  man  with  a. gypsy  face,  a 
gun  over  his  shoulder,  and  two  or  three 
yelping  dogs  at  his  heels. 

"  What  the  dickens  is  the  row  ?"  he  asks. 
up,  little  'un.     Good  G !  she's  dead  !" 


Hold 


SLEAFORD  S. 


33 


!ver  tlioiight  IM 
liere  to  holp  or 
loy  beat  me  to 
out !" 

the  lea])  of  a 
B»"s  i!i  the  pale 
I)  Miistaking  h^r 
rce  eyes  blaze 
Olira  finds  her 
jonized. 

lien   a   sharper 
i    that?      Call 


es,  and  not  a 

and — an  oath 

3r  victim  from 

4^ith  the  fleet- 


ig  to  the  res- 

33  and  picks 

ypsy  face,  a 

wo  or  three 

3ks.     « Hold 


It  looks  like  it.  She  lies  across  his  arm,  a  limp 
and  inert  little  form,  all  white  drapery,  blonde  curls, 
and  pale,  still  face.  The  moon  is  rising  now,  the  big 
white  shield  of  the  July  night,  and  he  takes  off  the 
crushed  Leghorn  ilat  the  better  to  behold  his  prize. 

"JJy  thunder  I"  he  exclaims,  aloud,  "it's  the  little 
Ventni)r.  The  little  great  lady,  the  little  heiress. 
Now,  then,  here's  a  go,  and  no  mistake." 

lie  stands  at  a  loss,  utterly  surprised.  She  has 
been  as  a  small  Sultana  in  the  eyes  of  all  Brightbrook, 
every  one  knows  her,  and  to  find  her  like  this,  dead,  to 
all  seeming,  murdered,  it  may  be,  appalls  him. 

"She  wasn't  dead  a  minute  ago  ;  she  was  screech- 
ing for  her  papa  like  a  good  'un.  Perhaps  she  ain't  dead 
yet.  Maybe  she's  fainted  or  that,  frightened  at  some- 
thing. Don't  seem  to  be  anybody  here  to  frighten 
hor,  nuther.  AVonder  what's  gone  with  the  French 
nui'amselle?  Well,  I'll  tote  her  to  tlie  house  anyhow  ; 
if  she's  alive  at  all  the  gals  '11  fetch  her  round." 

He  swings  lier  as  he  might  a  kitten  over  his  shoul- 
der. He  is  a  long-limbed,  brown-skinned  young 
fellow  of  twenty,  whistles  to  his  dogs,  and  starts  over 
the  star-lit  fields  at  a  swinging  pace.  All  the  way  he 
whistles,  all  the  way  his  keen  black  eyes  keep  a  bright 
lookout  for  any  one  who  may  be  in  hiding.  No  one 
seems  to  be,  for  he  reaches  his  destination,  a  solitary 
red  farm-house  standing  among  some  arid-looking 
meadows.  A  field  of  corn  at  one  side  looks,  in  the 
shine  of  the  moon,  like  a  goblin  play-ground,  but  the 
house  itself  seems  cheery  enough.  Many  lights  twinkle 
along  i*:s  low  front,  and  the  lively  strains  of  a  fiddle 
gret't  him  as  he  opens  the  door. 

The  interior  is  a  remarkable  one  enough.      The 

a* 


[.  -I- 


84 


sleaford's. 


room  is  long  and  low,  the  ceiling  quite  black  with 
smoke,  as  are  .also  the  walls,  the  broad   floor  a  trifle 


blacker,  if 


])0SS1 


blc,  than   either  :  the  furniture,  .Honie 


yellow  wooden  chairs,  two  deal  tables,  a  wooden  sofa, 
and  a  cupboard,  well  stocked  with  coarse  blue  delf. 
It  is,  in  fact,  the  farm-house  kitchen,  and  in  tlie  wide 
fire-place,  despite  the  warmth  of  the  night,  a  fire  is 
burning.  Over  it  hangs  a  large  pot,  in  which  the 
family  supper  is  simmering  and  sending  forth  savory 
odors. 

The  occupants  of  the  room  are  four.  On  one  of 
the  tables  is  perched  a  youth  of  eighteen,  black-eyed, 
black-haired,  swarthy-skinned,  playing  the  Virginia 
reel  with  vigor  and  skill. 

Two  girls,  young  women,  as  far  as  size  and  de- 
velopment make  women,  though  evidently  not  more 
than  sixteen,  are  dancing  with  might  and  main,  their 
hands  on  their  sides,  their  heads  well  up,  their  cheeks 
flushed  crimson,  their  black  eyes  alight,  their  black 
hair  unbound — two  wild  young  Bacchanti. 

The  one  spectator  of  the  reel  sits  crouched  in  the 
chimney-corner,  her  knees  drawn  up,  her  elbows  on 
them,  her  chin  in  her  palms,  a  singularly  witch-like 
attitude,  barefooted,  shock-headed,  with  gleaming, 
derisive  dark  eyes. 

The  door  is  flung  wide,  and  enters  the  young  man 
of  the  woods,  with  his  burden,  his  gun,  and  his  dogs. 
The  reel  comes  to  a  sudden  stop,  and  six  big  black 
eyes  stare  in  wild  wonder  at  this  unexpected  sight. 

"  Why — what  is  it  ?"  one  of  the  girls  cries — "  a 
dead  child,  Dan  ?  What  for  the  Lord's  sake  have  you 
got  there  ?" 

"  Ah  !    What  ?"  says  Dan.     "  Here,  take  her,  and 


sleaford's. 


35 


lite  black  with 
.1  floor  a  trifle 
fiiniitnre,  some 
a  wooden  sofa, 
arse  blue  delf. 
lid  in  the  wide 
light,  a  fire  is 
in  which  the 
g  forth  savory 

'.     On  one  of 

?n,  black-evcd, 

the   Virginia 

size  and  do- 
itly  not  more 
id  main,  their 
'.  their  cheeks 

,  their  black 

• 

•uched  in  the 

!r  elbows  on 

ly  witch-like 

I    gleaming, 

young  man 
nd  his  dogs. 
X  big  black 
ed  sight. 


IS  cries — " 


a 


ke  have  you 
ike  her,  and 


see  if  she's  living  or  dea(!.  I  can  tell  yon  who  she  is, 
fast  enough,  or  who  she  was,  rather,  for  she  looks  as 
dead  as  a  door-nail  now,  blessed  if  she  don't.  Here  I 
feteh  her  to  if  you  can,  you,  Lora  ;  it  will  be  worth 
while,  let  me  tell  you." 

He  lays  the  limp  child  in  the  arms  of  one  of  the 
girls.  The  firelight  falls  full  upon  the  waxen  face  as 
they  all  crowd  around.  Only  the  crouching  figure  in 
the  iniile  nook  stirs  not.  There  is  a  simultaneous  out- 
cry  of  recognition  and  dismay. 

"  It's  little  Missy  Ventnor  !" 

"  It's  the  kernal's  little  gal  !" 

"  It's  Frank  Livingston's  cousin  !" 

"  It's  the  little  heiress  !" 

Then  there  is  a  pause,  an  open-mouthed,  round- 
eyed  pause,  and  gasp  of  astonishment.  It  requires  a 
moment  to  take  this  in. 

"  And  while  you're  staring  there  like  stuck  pigs," 
say«  the  sarcastic  voice  of  Brother  Dan,  "  the  young 
'un  stands  a  good  chance  oF  becoming  a  stilT  'un  in 
reality,  if  she  ain't  now.  Can't  you  sprinkle  her  with 
water,  you  fools,  or  unhook  lier  clothes,  or  do  what- 
ever ought  to  be  done.  You,  Lora,  tote  her  into  the 
next  room,  and  bring  her  round,  and  you,  Liz,  dish  up 
that  hash,  for  I'm  as  hungry  as  a  hunter." 

Issuing  these  commands,  he  draws  up  a  chair  to 
the  fire,  as  though  it  were  December,  and  proceeds  to 
load  a  little  black  pipe  to  the  muzzle.  Thus  engaged, 
his  eyes  fall  on  the  huddled-up  figure  opposite. 

"  Oh  !"  he  growls,  '"'"yoiCre  there,  Miss  Fiery  Head, 
layin'  in  the  chimney-corner,  as  usual.  Git  up  and  set 
the  table.     D'ye  hear  ?" 

She  does  not  seem  to  ;  she  blinks  up  at  him  like  a 


36 


bleaford's. 


::ii 


ill 


'II. 


toad,  and  does  nol  stir.  Witli  an  oatli  lie  scizos  a 
billet  of  wood,  and  Iniris  it  at  licr,  but  she  ducks  with 
a  mocking  I'Uigh,  and  it  goes  over  lier  head.  As  ho 
stoops  for  anotljer,  she  springs  to  her  feet,  and  sets  to 
work  to  do  his  bidding. 

Meanwliile,  in  tlie  next  room,  tljo  two  sisters  are 
doing  their  unskilled  best  to  bring  Miss  Ventnor 
"  round."  It  is  the  parlor  of  the  establisiiment,  has  a 
carpet  on  tlie  floor,  cane-seated  cliairs  arranged  primly 
around,  a  rocker  to  match,  sundry  gay  and  gaudy 
chromos  on  the  walls,  china  dogs  and  cats  on  the  man- 
tel, green  boughs  in  the  fire-place,  and  a  crimson  loiingo 
under  the  windows.  On  this  lounge  they  lay  her, 
they  sprinkle  her  plentifully  with  water,  force  a  little 
whisky  into  her  mouth,  slap  her  ])alrns,  undo  her  dress, 
and  after  some  ten  minutes  of  this  manipulation  there 
is  a  long-drawn  sigh  and  shiver,  the  eyelids  flutter, 
open,  shut,  open  again,  and  two  blue  eyes  look  up  into 
the  gypsy  faces  bending  above  her. 

"  There  !"  says  one  of  the  sisters,  with  a  long 
breath  of  satisfaction,  "  you're  all  right  now,  ain't 
you?  Gracious!  how  white  and  limpsy  you  was,  to 
be  sure.  First  time  I  ever  saw  anybody  in  a  faint 
before  in  my  life.  Drink  a  little  drop  of  this,  it's 
■whisky  and  water." 

But  Olga  pushes  away  the  nauseous  beverage  with 
disgust. 

"  I  don't  like  it,"  she  says,  faintly  ;  "  the  smell 
makes  me  sick.  Please  take  it  away."  She  pushes 
back  her  tangled  hair  and  looks  vaguely  about  her. 
"  Where  am  I  ?"  she  asks;  beginning  to  tremble. 
"  What  place  is  this  ?" 

"  Oh,  you're  all  right  ;  don't  be  scared,  deary,"  says 


•I 


SLE  A  ford's. 


87 


itli  lie  sclzos  a 
slio  fl licks  with 
■  lu'iid.  As  lio 
L'ot,  and  KL'ts  to 

wo  sisters  are 
Miss   VentDor 
lishmont,  has  a 
•ranged  primly 
ly  and   gaudy 
ts  on  tlio  man- 
irinison  loiingo 
tboy    lay  her, 
",  force  a  litile 
ndo  her  dress, 
[Jiilation  there 
^elids  flutter, 
i  look  up  into 

with  a  long 
t   now,   ain't 

you  was,  to 
y  in   a  faint 

of  this,  it's 

average  with 

"the  smell 
She    pushes 

about  her. 
to   tremble. 

Jeary,"  says 


the  sister  called  Lora  ;  "  this  is  Sloaford's.  I'm  Lora 
CleaCoKl  ;  tills  is  my  sister,  Liz.  J»Iess  us,  what  a 
pretty  little  thing  you  are,  as  fair  as  a  lily,  1  do  de- 
clare !  I  wish  /  was  ;  but  I  am  as  bhifk  as  a  crow. 
We  all  are,  father  and  all,  oven  our  Joanna,  in  spite  of 
her  horrid  red  hair.  Don't  be  friglitcnecl,  little  missy  ; 
we  know  wli<i  you  are,  and  you  are  all  safe.  And  we 
know  your  cousin,  Frank  Livingston  ;  lie  is  a  right 
nice  fellow,  comes  liere  most  every  night.  Likely's 
not  he'll  be  here  in  a  little  while,  now,  and  then  ho 
can  take  you  home.  Liz  !  there's  the  boys  calling  for 
their  sui)|)er,  and  I  hear  father.  You'd  better  go  and 
get  it  for  them." 

"J<janna's  there,"  says  Liz,  not  stirring  ;  "let  her" 

"  When  you  know  very  well  she  wori't  if  she  takes 
the  notion,"  retorts  Lora,  angrily  ;  "  there  !  there's 
father  calling  you.     Now,  you  mmt  go." 

It  seems  she  must,  for  she  does.  Lora  turns  back 
again  to  her  charge.  There  is  not  much  diiference  in 
these  two  sisters,  and  naturally,  for  they  are  twins, 
t)ut  Lora  is  rather  the  better  looking,  and  decidedly 
the  better  natured  of  the  pair. 

"  How  did  you  come  to  be  with  our  Dan,  anyhow  ?" 
she  asks,  curiously.  "  Where  did  he  find  you  ?  and 
what  on  earth  made  you  faint  away?" 

The  question  arouses  memory.  Olga  shuts  her  eyes 
with  a  shudder,  and  turns  so  white  that  Lora  thinks 
she  is  going  to  faint  again. 

"  Oh  !  that  dreadful  girl !  that  dreadful  girl  !"  she 
says,  with  a  shuddering  gasp. 

"  What  dreadful  girl  ?  What  do  you  mean  ?  Did 
you  get  lost,  and  did  somebody  scare  you  in  the 
woods?    What  was  she  like?"  demands  Lora,  sharply. 


m 
m 


I 


I 

Mill 


utjii 

Hi 


flLEAFORD  3. 


But  Oljja  cannot  toll.  Sho  tromMcs,  and  Rhivers, 
an<l  covers  lior  oyes  with  licr  liands,  as  if  to  shut  out 
some  dreadful  vision.  **  She  said  she  wouM  jiull  my 
hair  out,  and  then- -and  then  I  got  dizzy,  and  it  got 
dark,  and — and  that  is  all,"  she  rej)lies,  incoherently. 

"Now  I  wonder  if  it  wasn't  our  Joanna?"  Miss 
Sleaford  says,  musingly.  "  It  would  bo  just  like  her 
— little  imp  !  If  I  thought  it  was — but  no,  Joanna 
•was  in  the  house  ever  so  long  before  they  came.  Well, 
don't  you  cry,  little  deary.  Frank  Livingston  will  bo 
here  pretty  soon,  and  he'll  take  you  home.  Now  I'll 
,^o  and  get  you  something  to  eat.  You're  hungry, 
B-in't  you,  and  would  like  some  tea?" 

"  Oh,  I  only  want  papa  ! — nothing  but  papa  !"  sobs 
the  child,  quivering  with  nervous  excitement.  "Oh, 
jjapa,  papa,  papa  !" 

•^^  Well,  there,  don't  make  a  fuss  ;  your  papa  will 
con.ie  directly,  I  tell  you.  And  you  are  all  safe  here, 
wn<]  needn't  be  afraid.  Now  I'll  go  and  get  you  some- 
thijkg — toast  and  tea — if  there  is  any  tea.  So  stop 
Oryiing,  or  you'll  make  yourself  sick." 

Miss  Sleaford  departs.  In  the  kitchen  the  two 
young  men,  and  their  father,  Giles  Sleaford,  are  seated 
at  one  of  the  deal  tables,  partaking  of  steaming  hash 
with  the  appetites  '>r  hunters  and  constitutionally  hun- 
gry men.  The  father  is  like  the  sons,  a  powerful, 
black-bearded,  sullen-looking  man.  Evidently  he  has 
heard  the  story,  for  he  looks  up,  with  a  glower,  as  his 
daughter  enters.  "  Well?"  he  says,  in  a  growling  sort 
of  voice  ;  "  how  is  she  ?" 

"  Oh,  all  right,"  Lora  responds.  "  Crying  for  her 
papa,  of  course.  She  won't  *^ake  any  of  that  stuff," 
pointing  to  the  greasy  dish  of  hash  with  some  disdain  j 


6LKAF0IID  «. 


89 


OS,  .irul  shivers, 
it*  to  shut  out 
would  pull  my 
7.7.)\  atii]  it  got 
incoherently. 
JoanuH?"  Miss 
0  just  like  her 
)ut  no,  Jo.inn.i 
y  came.    Well, 
ngston  will  bo 
)me.     Now  ril 
'^ou'ro   hungry, 

It  papa !"  sobs 
ement.     "  Oh, 

our  papa  will 
all  safe  here, 
get  you  some- 
tea.     So  stop 

hen  the  two 
rcl,  are  seated 
teaming  hash 
itionally  hun- 
a  powerful, 
ently  he  has 
lower,  as  his 
growling  sort 

ying  for  her 
that  stuff," 
)me  disdaiu  ; 


P*I  must  make  her  some  toast,  if  there  is  any  raised 

|bre;i.l." 

"  There  ain't  any  raised  bread,"  says  Liz. 

**M:ike  her  tea,"  suggests  Dan  ;  "that's  the  stuff 
[they  drink.     Store  tea,  and  some  short-cake." 

"There  ain't  no  tea,"  says  Li/,  again. 

"  Get  some,  then,"  growls  the  master  of  the  house  ; 
^**  she's  worth  taking  care  on.     Send  to  JJrick's  and  get 


some. 


11 


"  Joanna  !"  calls  Liz,  shar])ly  ;  "  d'ye  liear  ?    Go  !" 
She  turns  to  the  chimney-corner,  where,  crouchjd 
Wagain,  like  a  small  salamander,  in  her  former  attitude, 
lis  Joanna,  basking  like  a  lizard  in  the  heat. 
j||       "  Won't  I"  returns  Joanna,  briefly  ;  "  go  yourself." 
W       "What?"  cries  Giles  Sleaford,  turning  in   sudden 
I  ferocity  from  the  table—"  what  ?" 
I        "Says  she  won't,"  says  Liz,  maliciously — "says  go 
I  myself." 

I  The  man  rises  and  takes  down  a  horsewhip  from  a 
i|  shelf  near,  without  a  word.  The  dark,  glittering  eyes 
S  of  the  girl  follow  him,  but  she  does  not  stir.  "  Won't, 
^  won't  she  ?"   says  Mr.   Sleaford.     "  We'll   see  if  slie 


I  won't.     You  little 


!" — two  o.aths  and  a  liiss- 


I  ing  blow.     "  You  won't  go,  won't  you,  you  little  foxy 

■'■■■' I" 

With  each  imprecation,  a  cut  of  the  whip  falls 
across  the  shoulders  of  the  crouching  child.  Two  or 
f  three  she  bears  in  silence,  then  with  a  fierce  scream  of 
pain  and  passion,  she  leaps  to  her  feet,  darts  across 
the  room,  and  spits  at  him  like  a  mad  cat. 

"  No,  I  won't,  I  won't,  I  won't ! — not  if  you  cut 
me  in  pieces  with  your  whip  !  I  won't  go  for  tea  for 
her  !    I  won't  go  for  nothio*  for  her  !     I  won't  go  for 


•r 


II 


1 


l!i 


i 


iiiiih 


io    1 


11 


ill! 

ilj! 

I 

I'! 


40 


sleafokd's. 


you — not  if  you  whip  me  to  deatii !  I  won't  go  !  I 
won't,  I  won't,  I  won't  I" 

The  man  pauses  :  used  as  he  is  to  lier  paroxysms 
of  fury  she  looks  so  like  a  mad  thing,  in  her  rage  at 
this  moment,  tliat  he  actually  holds  his  brutal  hand. 

*'  01),  come,  dad,  you  let  her  alone,"  remonstrates 
bis  younger  son  ;  "don't  cut  her  uj)  like  that." 

But  recovering  from  iiis  momentary  check,  Giles 
Sleaford  lays  hold  of  her  to  renew  the  attack.  As  he 
does  so  Joanna  stoops  and  buries  her  sharp  white 
teeth  in  his  hand.  And  at  that  same  instant  a  small 
white  figure,  with  blanched  face  and  dilated  eyes, 
glides  forward  and  stands  before  him. 

"  Don't  !  Oh,  don't  !"  0!ga  Ventnor  says.  "  Oh  ! 
pray,  pray  don't  beat  her  like  thnt !"  She  hold.:  up 
her  clasped  hands  to  Giles  Sleaford,  who,  partly  from 
the  pain  of  the  bite,  partly  from  surprise,  recoils  and 
lets  go  his  hold.  Instantly  Joanna  darts  away,  opens 
the  door,  and  disappears. 

*'  That's  the  last  of  her  till  dinner-tirac  to-morrow," 
says  the  younger  Sleaford,  with  a  laugh,  "  she'll  roost 
with  the  blue-birds  to-night.  Dad  mayn't  think  so, 
but  he'll  drive  that  little  devil  to  run  a  knife  into  him 
yet." 

There  is  many  a  true  word  spoken  in  jest,  says  the 
adage.  In  the  dark  and  tragical  after  days  that 
somber  speech  comes  back  to  youcg  Judson  Sleaford 
like  a  prediction. 


♦»» 


A  DEED   OF   DARKXESS. 


41 


I  won't  go  !    I 

o  lior  paroxysms 
ig,  in  lier  rage  at 
is  brutal  hand. 
0,"  remonstrates 
ke  that." 
tary  chock,  Giles 
!  attack.  As  lie 
lier  sharp  white 
•  instant  a  small 
id    dilated   eyes, 

lor  says.  "  Oh  ! 
'  She  hokl.:  up 
'ho,  partly  from 
)rise,  recoils  and 
irts  away,  opens 

ime  to-morrow," 

h,  "she'll  roost 

lay  n't  think  so, 

knife  into  him 

in  jest,  says  the 
fter  days  that 
Fudson  Sleaford 


CHAPTER    VI. 


A    DEED   OF   DARKNESS. 


()  it  befalls,  that  in  spite  of  threats  and 
horsewhij),  Joanna  has  her  own  way,  and 
docs  not  go  for  the  tea.  (liles  Sleaford 
retires  to  the  chimney-corner,  grumbling 
intornallv,  as  is  his  sullen  wont,  and  looking  darkly 
ftskance  at  the  small  intruder.  He  makes  uneasy  signs 
to  his  daughters  to  take  her  back  whence  she  came,  as 
he  nils  his  after-sujjper  pipe.  IJoth  his  sons  are  already 
smoking,  and  the  tobacco-laden  atmosphere  half 
chokes  the  child. 

"Come,  dear,"  says  Lora,  taking  her  by  the  hand. 
"  Ijut  what  is  she  to  have  to  eat?"  queries  Liz.    "  I 
suppose,  Jud,  i/ou  wouldn't  go  for  the  tea  ?" 

"  No,  I  wouldn't,"  answers  Jud,  promptly.  "  I'm 
dead  tired.  I  don't  stir  out  o'  this  corner,  'cept  to  go 
to  bunk  to-night.  Besides,  she  says  she  don't  drink  it 
— heerd  her  yourself,  didn't  yer?" 

"  Perhaps  she'll  take  milk,"  suggests  Dan.  "  Ask 
her,  Lorry." 

"  Oh,  yes,  please,  I  will  take  milk,"  Olga  responds, 
Slrinking  into  herself  ;  "anything.     Lideed,  I  am  not 
'Pn  the  least  hungry." 

*        "And  ril  poach  her  an  cg^"  says  Liz,  brightening, 
now  that  this  dilhcult  question  of  the  commissariat  is 
^settled.     "I'll  fetch  it  in  in  five  minutes.     You  undress 
|her,  Lora,  and  put  her  to  bed." 

*•  But  I  want  to  go  home  !"  Olga  says,  beginning  to 


42 


A  DEED   OF  DARKNESS. 


Il'i 


i'  '! 


i 


I"  1 

m 


III 


ii! 


tremble   again.      "I   must    not   stay   here   all   uiglit. ' 
Papa   and   mamma  do  not   know  where  I  am.     You 
must  not  undress  me,  please.     I  must  go  home." 

"But,  little  missy,  you  can't  go  home  to-niglit. 
ISee,  it  is  eleven  o'clock  now,  and  even  if  Frank 
Livingston  does  come,  which  ain't  likely  (though  what 
keeps  him  I  can't  think),  it  will  be  too  late  for  you  to 
go  back  to  your  liome  with  liim.  It  is  a  good  three 
miles  if  it  is  an  inch." 

"  Oh  !  what  shall  I  do  ?"  poor  little  Olga  sobs,  "and 
papa  will  be  frightened  to  death,  and  mamma  wil' 
worry  herself  sick.  Oh  !  I  wish  Cousin  Frank  would 
come.  But  he  will  not — I  know  he  will  not.  I  made 
him  promise  this  afternoon." 

"What?"  says  Lora  Sleaford,  blankly. 

"I  made  him  promise.  He  stays  out  so  late,  you 
know,  and  I  made  him  promise  he  would  not  any 
more.  And  that  is  why  he  has  not  come,"  explains 
Olga,  with  a  sob. 

"  Well,  I  do  declare  !"  cries  Miss  Sleaford,  looking 
anything  but  pleased.  "  You  made  him  promise  !  A 
bit  of  a  dolly  like  you  !  Well — you  see  it's  yourself 
you  have  punished  after  all.  If  you  had  let  him  alone 
he  would  liave  been  here  two  hours  ago,  and  you 
might  have  been  home  by  this." 

Miss  Yentnor  covers  her  face  with  her  mite  of  a 
pocket-handkerchief,  and  sobs  within  its  folds.  She  is 
too  much  a  little  lady  to  do  her  weeping,  or  anything 
else,  loudly  or  ungracefully,  but  none  the  less  they  are 
very  real  tears  the  cobweb  cambric  quenches. 

"So  you  didn't  want  Mr.  Frank  to  come  here," 
goes  on  Lora,  still  sulkily ;  "  how  did  you  know  he 
came  ?" 


CSS. 


■■ii 


A  DEED   OF  DARKNESS. 


43 


r  liere  all  iiigl)t. 
liere  I  am.  You 
I  go  home." 

0  home  to-night. 

1  even  if  Frank 
ely  (though  what 
)0  late  for  you  to 
'  is  a  good  three 

3  Olga  sobs,  "and 
tnd  mamma  wil' 
sin  Frank  would 
-'ill  not.     I  made 

kly. 

out  so  late,  yoii 
would  not  any 
come,"  explains 


leaford,  lookin^^ 
m  promise  !  A 
5ee  it's  yourself 
id  let  him  alone 
ago,  and  you 

her  mite  of  a 
8  folds.  She  is 
g,  or  anything 
le  less  they  are 
iches. 
o  come  here," 

you  know  he 


« I  (3J,5 — didn't  know.  I  only  knew  he — he  stopped 
out  late.  And  he  said — said— it  was  up  the  village. 
And  I  made  him  prom — promise  he  wouldn't  do  so  any 
more.     Oh,  dear,  dear,  dear  !" 

"  There,  there,  stop  crying,"  says  Lora,  relenting  ; 
"you'll  certainly  make  yourself  sick.  Here's  Liz  with 
iomething  to  eat.  It  ain't  what  you're  used  to,  I 
^ro  say,  but  you  must  take  something,  you  know,  or 
you  won't  be  able  to  go  home  to-morrow  either." 

This  argument  effectually  rouses  the  child.  She 
dries  her  tears,  and  remembers  suddenly  she  is  hungry. 
Liz  comes  forward  with  a  big  black  tray  which  is 
found  to  contain  a  glass  of  milk,  a  poached  egg,  some 
raspben-ies,  a  bit  of  butter,  and  a  triangular  wedge  of 
ihort-cake. 

"  Now,"  she  says,  "  that's  the  best  we  can  do  for 
you.  So  eat  something  and  go  to  bed."  She  places 
the  tray  before  the  child,  and  Lora  draws  her  to  a 
window,  where  a  whispered  conference  takes  place. 

"Well,  I  never  !"  says  Miss  Sleaford  the  second, 
in  high  dudgeon  ;  "  the  idea  !  Gracious  me  !  a  chit 
like  that,  too  !" 

It  is  evident  Lora  is  retailing  the  embargo  laid  on 
H'ister  Frank's  visits. 

"  It  is  lucky  she  doesn't  know  about  the  presents, 
the  jewelry  and  things.  What  an  old-fashioned  little 
|)nss  !" 

There  is  more  whispering,  some  giggling,  and  Olga 

feels  in  every  shrinking  little  nerve  that  it  is  all  about 

Jier.     She  drinks  the  milk,  and  eat,3  the  fruit,  essays 

^he  egg,  and  mingles  her  tears  with  her  meat.     Oh  ! 

|how  alarmed  papa  and  mamma  will  be,  and  what  a 

Ireadful  place  this  is  to  spend   a  whole  long  night. 


44 


A  DEED   OF  DAilKNESS. 


m ': 


i  ll 


Will  tboy  leave  hor  alone  in  this  room  ?  will  tlioy 
lenvo  her  in  the  dark 

"  Now  then  !"  exclaims  Liz,  briskly,  "  I  see  you've 
(lone,  so  I'll  just  take  the  things,  and  go  to  bed. 
Father  and  the  boys  have  gone  already,  and  I'm  as 
blinky  as  an  owl.     Lora " 

"I'll  stay  for  a  bit,"  says  Lora.  She  is  not  an  ill- 
natured  girl,  and  she  sees  the  speechless  terror  in  the 
child's  eyes.     "  You  go  to  bed.     lean  sleep  it  out  to- 


morrow morning 


)> 


Liz  goes  without  more  ado.  Lora  sits  down  beside 
the  little  girl,  and  begins  to  unbutton  her  boots.  "  Yon 
know  you  can't  go  home  to-niglit,"  she  says,  sooth- 
ingly, "and  you  rre  sleepy  and  nearly  tired  to  death. 
Now  you  must  just  let  me  fix  you  up  a  bed  here  on  the 
lounge,  and  I'll  only  take  off  your  dress,  because  you've 
no  night-gown  to  put  on.  I'll  stay  here  with  you,  and 
to-morrow  the  first  thing  my  brother  Judson  will  go 
over  to  j'our  cottage,  and  tell  your  folks.  Now  be 
good  ;  don't  look  so  pale  and  scary  ;  there's  nothing 
to  be  afraid  of  here,  and  I'm  going  to  stay  with  you 
all  night." 

"  All  night  ?"  questions  Olga,  lifting  two  large 
earnest  eyes. 

"  Oh,  yes,  all  night,"  says  Lora,  who  differs  from 
George  Washington,  and  ca7i  tell  a  lie.  "  Now,  I'll 
fix  your  bed,  and  sing  you  to  sleep,  and  you  will  be  at 
home  to-moiTOw  morning  before  you  know  it." 

She  produces  sheets  and  a  quilt,  and  improvises  a 
bed,  lays  Olga  in  it,  and  takes  a  seat  by  her  side. 

"  I  will  sing  for  you,"  she  says.  "  You  shut  those 
pretty  blue  peepers  right  away,  and  don't  open  them 
till  breakfast-time  to-morrow." 


ss. 


A  DEED  OF  DAKKNESS. 


45 


room?    will  th 


^y 


ly,  "  r  see  you've 

and  go  to   bed. 

acly,  and  I'm  as 

She  is  not  an  ill- 

Icss  terror  in  tlie 

sleep  it  out  to- 

'iits  down  beside 
ler  boots.  "  Yon 
she  says,  sootli- 
Y  tired  to  death, 
bed  here  on  the 
,  because  you've 
0  with  you,  and 
Tudson   will  p) 
oiks.     Now  be 
there's   nothiii'^ 
stay  with  you 

ing   two  large 

o  diifers  from 
e.     "  Now,  I'll 

you  will  be  at 
3W  it." 

i  improvises  a 
her  side, 
"ou  shut  those 
n't  open  them 


She  begins  in  a  sweet,  crooning  voice  a  camp-meet- 
ing hymn.  The  low  singing  sound  soothes  the  child's 
Btill  quivering  nerves.  Gradually  her  eyelids  sway 
heavilv,  close,  open  again,  shut  once  more,  and  she  is 
fast.     Then  ]Miss  Sleat'ord  rises  with  a  great  yawn. 

"  Off  at  last,  and  a  tough  job  it  Avas.  Hush  I 
twelve  o'clock  !  I  thought  it  was  twenty.  I  wonder 
if  that  young  limb,  Joanua,  is  back  ?  Most  likely  not, 
thoui^h.  It's  queer  she  don't  take  her  death  o'  fever 
*tk  ague,  sleeping  out  doors." 

She  gives  a  last  look  at  the  sleeper. 

"  Fast  as  a  church,"  she  whisj)er8. 

She  takes  the  lamp,  leaves  the  room,  shuts  the  door 
Boftly,  and  goes  up-stairs  under  the  rafters  to  join  her 
8lec'j)ing  sister.  The  old  red  farm-house  is  very  still. 
In  the  kitchen  black  beetles  hold  high  carnival  ;  in  the 
j^arlor  the  moonlight  streams  in  on  the  pale  hair  and 
quiet  face  of  the  little  lost  heiress.  Outside,  the  trees 
»way  and  rustle  in  the  night  breeze,  and  the  stars  bum 
l>ig   and   bright   in   the   mysterious   silence    of   early 


morning. 


One  !  two  !  three  ! 

With  a  start  Olga  Ventnor  awakes.  It  is  the 
^wooden  Connecticut  clock  in  the  kitchen,  loudly  pro- 
(Blaiming  the  hour.  Awakes  with  a  chill  and  a  thrill 
©f  terror,  to  find  herself  quite  alone.  Lora  gone,  the 
Tight  fled,  the  pale,  solemn  shine  of  the  moon  filling 
the  i)lace,  and  that  loud  strident  clock  striking  three. 
Oh,  to  hear  Cousin  Frank's  footsteps  now  stealing  up 
and  on  to  his  room  !  Oh,  for  Jeannette — Lora — any 
pne — anything  but  this  silent,  spectral,  moonlit  room  ! 

Stay!     What  is  that? 

She  is  ?iot  alone.     Yonder  in  the  corner,  under  the 


I 


il! 


I. 
\ 


H'. 


:       i 

lb 


i!     i 

hi 


46 


A  DEED   OF  DARK"N-ES9. 


chirancy-picco,  crouches  a  figure  all  hiultllcd  in  a  licap] 
knees  (Iriwn  up,  and  arms  clasped  around  llicm.    Witlil 
appalling  distinctness  she  sees  it,  the  shock  head  ofl 
hair,  the  thin,  fierce  face,  the  bare  feet  and  legs.     81i 
lias  see;.i  it  before.     The  moonlight  is  full  upon  it,  tliM 
eyes  aic  wide  open  and  gleam  like  a  cat's.     The  crea- 
ture  Fits  perfectly  motionless,  and  stares  before  her. 
Perfectly  motionless,   alsc,  Olga  lies,  in  a  trance  ofl 
terror,  scarcely  breathing,  feeling   numb   and  frozen 
with    deadly    fear.     The   thing   stirs    at   last,    shakes 
itself,  turns  to  the  bed,  glares  at  it,  and  rises  slowly 
to  its  feet.     Olga's  heart  has  stopped  beating,  she  has 
ro  voice  to  cry  out,  all  her  faculties  are  absorbed  in 
one — seeing.    The  apparition  speaks  in  a  mujQfled  whis- 
per to  itself  : 

"  I'll  do  it  !  I'll  do  it  if  they  kill  me— if  they  whip 
me  till  I'm  dead.  I  hate  her  ;  I  always  hated  her.  I 
hate  'em  all,  but  her  most.  I  never  thought  I'd  have 
the  chance,  and  now  she's  here  and  asleep,  and  I'll  do 
it,  I'll  do  it,  I'll  do  it  !" 

She  tiptoes  to  the  bed  ;  there  is  a  gleam  of  blue 
steel.  Is  it  a  knife?  She  is  close — she  stretches  out 
one  long,  thin  hand,  clutches  a  handful  of  fair,  float- 
ing hair.  The  malignant  face,  the  gleaming  eyes,  the 
wild  hair,  are  within  three  inches  of  Olga.  Then, 
with  a  shock,  the  child  leaps  from  the  bed,  rushes 
frantically  across  the  room,  her  shriek':  rending  the 
stillness,  flings  open  the  door,  and  falls  headlong  in 
the  passage. 


»•« 


■:'ii 


ESS. 

liiukllGd  in  a  heap, 
round  tbcm.  Witli 
the  shock  licad  of 
'cet  and  legs.  Sin- 
is  full  ui)on  it,  till' 
I  cat's.  The  cica- 
stares  before  lior. 
s,  in  a  trance  of 
numb  and  frozen 
s  at  last,  shakes 
;,  and  rises  slowly 
d  beating,  she  has 
i  are  absorbed  in 
in  a  mujffled  whU- 

me — if  they  whip 
tys  hated  her.  I 
thought  I'd  have 
isleep,  and  I'll  do 

a  gleam  of  blue 
he  stretches  out 
ul  of  fair,  float- 
earaing  eyes,  the 
)f  Olga.  Then, 
the  bed,  rushts 
ikr;  rending  the 
Us  headlong  in 


SLEAFOIID  S     JOANNA. 


47 


CHAPTER  VII. 

SLEAFORD'S    JOANNA. 

UT  into  the  moonlight  live  hours  before 
the  child  Joanna  had  fled,  pale  with  pas- 
sion, pain,  defiance,  ablaze  with  wrath 
against  all  the  world.  It  is  a  customary 
mood  enough  with  this  elfish  child,  twelve  only  in 
years,  a  score,  if  hatred,  envy,  malice,  and  all  ill-will 
can  age  a  child.  To  be  flogged  like  a  hound,  to  be 
sent  supperless  to  bed,  to  be  starved  in  attic  or  cellar, 
to  swelter  in  fierce  August  noontides,  or  shiver  among 
the  rats  on  bitter  January  nights,  these  are  old  and 
well-known  experiences  in  Joanna's  life.  To  be  forced 
to  labor  from  day-dawn  until  midnight,  with  every 
bone  aching  ;  to  go  barefoot  through  slush  and  snow  ; 
•  to  sleep  and  live  worse  than  the  dogs — for  tkei/  are 
oared  for  ;  to  hear  only  brutal  words,  and  still  more 
brutal  oaths,  from  her  task-master's  lips  ;  to  be  jeered 
at,  to  go  clad  in  rags — this  has  been  the  life  of  this 
girl  of  twelve,  the  only  life  she  can  ever  remember. 
Lora  and  Liz  are  well,  gayly  clad  indeed  ;  they  sing, 
they  dance,  they  idle,  they  work  or  let  it  alone  as  they 
choose.  Is  not  Joanna  there,  the  household  drudge, 
the  homely,  red-haired,  rustic  Cinderella,  with  never 
godmother  or  other  mother,  in  fairyland  or  out  of  it, 
to  come  to  the  rescue  with  a  pumpkin  coach  and  a  pair 
of  glass  slippers  ?  She  knows  that  lovely  legend  of 
happy  childhood,  this  most  unhappy  little  outcast,  and 
■ighs  bitterly  sometimes  as  she  looks  at  the  big  golden 
jlobes  she  cuts  up  for  the  cows  and  pigs. 


'il' 


! 


il 


?    ! 


I    ! 


!    I 
i 


"    1 
ft    I 


48 


8LEAF0RD  S    JOANNA. 


There  are  fairy  godmothers  in  the  world,  no  donbl 
and  liandsome  yourio^  |)rinoosses,  but  tl»oy  never,  ol 
never  come  near  Sleafortl's  Farm.  And  who  cviu*  coi 
ceived  a  Cinderella  with  lieiy-red  hair,  freckles,  an] 
long  mottled  sliins?  A  cinder-sifter  she  has  bet] 
born,  a  citider-ssifter  she  mnst  die. 

She  l)as  these  thoughts  sometimes,  formless  aiii 
vague  mostlv,  but  bitter  alwavs.  It  would  liave  becrl 
better  if  Giles  Sleaford  had  left  her  in  the  gutter  [r\ 
starve  ten  years  ago,  instead  of  fishing  her  out  of  it, 
as  he  says  he  has  done.  lie  makes  a  great  deal  of  tli:i' 
far-off  city  gutter  in  his  grumbling  way,  for  she  is  not 
his  daughter,  this  bare-limbed  unfortunate  ;  she  is  no 
body's  daughter,  so  far  as  she  can  find. 

He  has  taken  her  out  of  the  slime  where  she  wai 
born,  he  tells  her,  and  slaves  early  and  late  to  give  her 
a  home,  and  this  is  her  thanks,  dash  her  !  Iler  molhd 
afore  her  was  a  good-for-nothin' — dash,  dash  hov- 
what  can  be  expected  from  the  unlicked  cub  of  sucli  s 
dam — dash  her  !  double  dash  everything  and  ever}' 
body,  his  own  eyes  and  limbs  included.  Giles  SleafoH 
was  an  Englishman  once,  he  is  a  cosmopolitan  now; 
has  tramped  over  the  world  in  a  vagabond  sort  of  way, 
is  a  man  under  a  cloud,  banned  and  shunned  by  his 
neighbors.  He  has  neither  bought  nor  rented  tliis 
farm,  and  yet  he  is  in  undisturbed  possession.  lit 
does  not  work  ;  he  fishes,  shoots,  prowls,  drinks,  fights; 
is  a  worthless  brute  generally.  Yet  he  has  plenty  of 
money,  his  daughters  dress  in  expensive  finery,  ainl 
there  is  a  rough  sort  of  plenty  always  at  their  house. 
He  is  of  horses  horsey,  and  bets  and  loses  heavily.  He 
is  a  bit  of  a  prize-fighter,  a  little  of  a  gambler,  a  dark 
and  dangerous  fellow  always.     Some  mystery  shrouds 


NA. 


SLKAFOKD  S    JOANNA. 


49 


lie  world,  no  doiibi 
»nt  tlioy  never,  oli 
And  who  ever  con 
hair,  freckles,  an 
fter  she    has    beoi. 

mes,  formless  an; 
t  would  have  beer 
?r  in  the  gutter  t( 
\\n<^  her  out  of  it, 
I  groat  deal  of  tlia; 
way,  for  Hhe  is  not 
irLunate  ;  she  is  no 
iiid. 

me  where  she  wa; 

md  late  to  give  licr 

her  !    Her  molhci 

-dash,  dash    hcr- 

;ked  cub  of  sucli  i 

fthing  and  evcrr 

id.    Giles  Slcafoi'i] 

osmopolitan  now; 

ibond  sort  of  way 

d  shunned  by  lii< 

nor   rented   tliii 

;1  possession.     Ih 

,vls,  drinks,  fights; 

ho  has  plenty  of 

'usive  finery,  aiiii 

ys  at  their  house. 

OSes  heavily,    lit 

gambler,  a  dark 

mystery  shrouds 


bim  ;  ho  throws  out  vague  hints  now  and  then  of  the 
power  he  holds  over  a  certain  very  rich  man  and  mag- 
nate of  the  place.  He  is  brutal  to  all,  to  his  own  sons 
tnd  daughters,  but  most  of  all  to  the  haj)less  creature 
linown  as  Sleaford's  Joanna.  That  he  has  not  killed 
ier  outright  in  one  of  his  fits  of  fury  is  not  due  to  him, 
(pne  of  the  Sleaford  boys  or  girls  generally  interfering 
ill  bare  nick  of  time.  Their  drudge  is  useful,  they  do 
tjot  want  her  beaten  to  death,  or  the  prying  eyes  of 
the  land  brought  to  bear  on  their  rustic  household.  So 
Joanna  is  still  alive  to  scour  the  woods,  and  terrify 
■mall,  fair-haired  heiresses  into  fits. 

The  moon  is  shining  brilliantly  as  she  leaves  the 
house.  She  looks  up  at  it,  her  hands  locked  together 
bi  a  tense  clench,  her  teeth  set,  her  eyes  aflame  with 
the  fires  of  rage  and  hatred,  her  shoulders  red  and 
welted  with  the  stinging  blows  of  the  whip.  It  is  a 
mute  appeal  to  Heaven  against  the  brutality  and  cru- 
flty  of  earth — that  Heaven  of  which  she  knows  noth- 
fcg,  excei)t  that  it  is  a  word  to  swear  by. 

She  wanders  slowly  on,  not  crying — she  hardly 
#ver  cries.  The  silence,  the  coolness,  the  beauty  of 
{he  night  calms  her  ;  she  does  not  mind  spending  it 
among  the  dewy  clover,  or  under  a  tree  ;  she  sleeps 
there  oftener  in  summer  than  anywhere  else.  She 
lakes  a  path  well  known  to  her  bare  feet — it  leads  to 
ber  favorice  sulking  place,  as  the  Sleaford  girls  call  it, 
tnd  is  perhaps  the  ugliest  spot  within  a  radius  of 
twenty  miles.  It  is  called  Black's  Dam.  An  old  dis- 
nsed  mill  falling  to  pieces  stands  there,  the  water  in 
the  stagnant  pond  is  muddy  and  foul.  It  is  a  desolate 
ipot  in  broad  day,  it  is  utterly  Jismal  and  dark  by 
tight.     Some  fellow-feeling  draws  her  to  it — it,  too,  is 

8 


50 


SLEAFORD  S     JOANNA. 


1  . 


I  I 


i:     ' 


ii: 


'.,'    ! 


■;  f  ' 


lonoly,  is  ngly,  is  sliunnod.  Khick's  Dam  is  her  one 
frioiid.  Tlio  ruiiicd  mill  is  liauiitcd,  of  course  ;  coipso 
candles  burn  there,  shrieks  are  heard  tliere,  it  is  peo- 
pled by  a  \vl)oIe  colony  of  bogies.  IJut  Joanna  is  not 
afraid  of  ghosts,  (ihosts  never  horsewhip,  never  swear, 
never  throws  sticks  of  Ijiekory  at  jieople's  lieads — do 
notliing,  in  fact,  but  go  about  in  white  sheets  after 
nightfall,  and  squeal  to  scare  people.  The  only  corpse- 
lights  slie  lias  ever  seen  are  lightning-bugs,  the  only 
supernatural  screams  the  whoo-whoo  of  a  belated  owl. 
The  sheeted  specttcrs  never  appear  to  her  ;  when  sho 
is  excej)tionally  lonely  sometimes  she  would  rather  be 
glad  of  the  company  of  one  or  two.  ]>ut  gliosts  are 
not  sociable,  they  never  seem  to  hav  much  to  say  for 
themselves,  so  perhaps  it  is  as  well.  On  rainy  nights 
she  sleeps  in  the  old  mill  ;  after  unusually  bad  beat- 
ings she  has  staid  there  for  days,  feeding  on  berries, 
and  been  found  and  forced  back  again  at  last,  a  gaunt 
skeleton.  More  than  once  she  has  sat  and  stared  at 
the  green,  slimy  water  until  the  desire  to  spring  in  and 
end  it  all  grows  almost  more  than  she  can  resist. 
"Only  old  Giles  Sleaford  will  be  glad  of  it,"  she 
thinks;  "I'll  keep  alive  just  to  spite  him."  And,  sad 
to  say,  it  is  tliis  motive  that  actually  holds  the  creature 
back  from  self-destruction  many  a  time. 

The  tempter  is  very  strong  within  her  to-night,  but 
Giles  Sleaford  is  not  the  object  of  her  vindictive,  sup- 
__  })ressed  wrath.  It  is  Olga  Ventnor.  She  has  grown  so 
used  to  his  oaths  and  blows  that  she  looks  for  nolhin<j 
else  ;  but  a  hundred  demons  seem  aroused  within  her 
by  th }  sight  of  the  beautiful,  golden-haired,  richly- 
robed  child.  This  is  the  sort  to  whom  fairy  god- 
mothers come,  for  w^hom  magic  wands  are  struck,  who 


slkafokd's   joanxa. 


51 


n 


go  to  balls,  and  dance  with  tlio  handsomo  prince,  and 
marry  him,  aiid  live  hapjiy  forever  after.  'J'liis  is 
what,  she  might  have  been,  but  never  can  he.  All  the 
beauty,  Jind  the  riciies,  and  the  fairy  gifts  are  for  thi^ 
little  curled  darling  of  the  gods  ;  for  her — the  la^^h, 
the  feeding  of  the  pigs,  the  rags,  the  rye  bread,  the 
ugly,  ugly  red  hair  ! 

She  has  reached  the  dam,  and  sits  down  on  a  flat 
stone  on  the  brink.  It  is  unspeakably  lonely — the 
moon  shines  in  a  cloudless  midnight  sky  ;  the  water  lies 
black,  solemn,  still  ;  the  old  mill  stands  sinister,  mys- 
terious, casting  long  shadows.  Hardly  a  breath  stirs  ; 
some  frogs  croak  dismally  in  the  green  dej)lhs — that 
is  all. 

She  sits  in  her  favorite  attitude,  lier  knees  drawn 
uj),  her  chin  in  her  palms,  and  stares  vacantly  before 
her.  One  thought,  one  only,  possesses  lier — her  hatred 
of  this  delicate  little  beuuty  and  heiress,  with  her  pearl- 
fair  face  and  long  light  hair.  She  would  kill  her  if 
she  could  ;  she  has  all  the  will  in  the  world  at  this 
moment  to  be  a  little  murderess.  Shocking — unreal  ? 
Well,  no  ;  think  how  she  has  been  brought  up — think 
of  the  records  of  juvenile  depravity  you  read  and 
slndder  at  in  tlie  newspaper  every  day.  The  demon 
of  envy  holds  her — a  passionate  outcry  against  the  in 
justice  of  her  fate,  that  has  given  the  golden  apples  of 
life  to  this  one,  the  scourings  of  the  j)ig-troiigh  to  her. 
"Unjust!  unjust!"  something:  within  her  cries, 
"why  has  she  all — I  nothing?"  It  is  the  spirit  that 
lias  hurled  kings  from  thrones,  wrought  revolutions, 
filled  the  world  with  communism — that  will  beat  the 
air  impotently  to  the  end  of  time.  No  savage  could 
be  more  untaught  than  this  child.     There  was  a  Power 


i 


m 


I  ; 


:ii, 


!     if 
■  I 

i  il 


52 


SLEAFOia>  S     JOAXXA. 


'»'  ;ll 


flM 


up  tluM'o  wlio  li.'id  Croat (mI  Iht,  but  wlio  lodkod  down 
on  all  this  and  ma<lo  no  sij^n.  'JMhto  was  a  lloaven  for 
wol  I -dressed,  rcsju'ctablo  ladles  and  ^'entlenien,  and 
little  lieiresses.  'J'here  was  a  llell  for  such  as  she, 
wicked  and  poor,  where  tliey  would  jjfo  when  they 
died,  and  burn  in  tortncnt  forever.  'J'his  nuich  she  be- 
lieves— it  comprises  her  whole  theoi-y  of  reliijfion. 

She  sits  for  a  lont:^  time  broodinjj^,  brooding.  Sho 
meant  to  have  done  somethinj'  to  that  girl  that  would 
mark  her  for  life — spoil  her  beauty  in  some  way — but 
she  has  been  prevented.  No  doubt  by  this  timo 
Frank  Livingston  has  come  and  fetched  lier  home, 
and  her  chance  is  gone  forever.  Frank  Livingston, 
too,  is  a  lily  of  the  field,  a  handsome  dandy,  but  ho 
awakens  none  of  this  slumbering  gall  and  bitterness 
within  her.  He  is  simply  something  to  be  silently  ad- 
mired, revered,  and  wondered  at,  a  being  of  bright- 
ness and  beaui}',  of  s))lendid  raiment,  lacquered  boots, 
diamond  studs,  and  a  general  odor  of  roses  and  Ess. 
13ouquet.  He  is  the  prince  to  be  worshiped  at  a  dis- 
tance, and  not  to  be  lightly  touched  or  spoken  to. 
She  wonders  sometimes  to  behold  him  pulling  Lora 
about  in  very  nnprincely  fashion,  and  to  see  that 
buxom  damsel  slap  his  face,  and  frowsle  his  si'ky 
chestnut  hair.  For  him,  he  takes  no  more  notice  of 
this  uncanny-looking  child,  with  the  eldritch  red  locks, 
than  of  one  of  the  half-dozen  ill-conditioned  dogs 
that  yelp  about  the  premises.  That  he  is  the  object 
of  her  silent  idolatry  would  have  tickled  Master  Frank 
beyond  everything. 

She  rises  at  last,  shivering  in  the  bleak  night  wind. 
She  is  as  nearly  nude  as  it  is  possit  le  to  be  in  a  state 
of  civilization,  and  the  chill  damp  pierces  through  her 


1 


SLEAFOUD  S    JOAXXA. 


53 


taltors.  Wliy  f»lio  does  not  crn  Into  the  mill  until  the 
niorninj?  slio  novt»r  knows  ;  slio  turns,  iustcjKl,  iiiul 
^valks  sl(»\vly  back  to  tlu*  rann. 

'riit'  liouso  is  all  (lark  aJid  siloiit.  The  doufs  fly  at 
Ikt,  but  a  word  quiftH  them  ;  tlu-y,  .')0,  know  .Joanna's 
witclidiko  ways.  Jud  SicaTord  swears  she  spends  half 
her  nights  ridinf]f  the  air  on  a  brooni-stiek — she  eoines 
and  troes,  like  the  ni<,d)t-wind,  where  she  listeth. 

She  goes  to  the  parlor  window,  and  flattens  lier 
nose  against  the  pane.  Her  eyes  are  keen  as  any 
ferret's.  Yes,  there  she  is — she  has  not  gone  home — 
asleep — alone/ — in  her  power  !  The  girl's  eyes  light  ; 
they  glitter  in  the  dark.  There  she  is,  asleep,  alone, 
in  her  power  ! 

She  goes  round  to  a  side  window,  opens  it,  and 
enters.  Dogs,  guns,  and  men  are  plentiful  at  Slea- 
ford's — bolts  are  scarce  ;  there  is  no  fear  of  burglars. 
She  enters,  droj)S  lighhy  to  the  ground,  goes  straight 
to  a  shelf  in  the  kitchen,  takes  down  something  bright 
and  steely,  and  steals  into  the  parlor  without  a  sound. 
Instead  of  going  straight  to  the  bed  she  crouches  in 
her  corner,  to  brood,  perhaps,  over  the  deed  of  dark- 
ness she  is  about  to  do,  or  it  may  be  to  count  the  cost. 
She  will  bo  blamed  in  the  morning,  no  doubt — is  she 
not  blamed  for  everything  that  goes  wrong?  bhe  will 
be  beaten  nearly  to  death — quite  to  death,  perhaps,  by 
Giles  Sleaford,  Well,  she  does  not  care.  They  will 
hang  him  for  it.  If  she  were  quite  sure  about  the 
hanging,  she  feels  she  would  be  whipped  to  death 
without  a  groan. 

The  clock  striking  three  arouses  her.  It  is  time  to 
bo  up  and  doing — in  an  hour  or  two  the  boys  will  be 
down.     Indecibion    forms    no  part  of    her  character  ; 


1 


ill  i 


!    ! 


|i   i 


64 


THE  ABBOTTS   OF  ABBOTT  WOOD. 


she  gets  up  at  once,  and  approaches  the  bed  with  her 
formidable  weapon.  It  is  the  family  sliears,  bright, 
large,  keen  as  a  razor,  and  her  object  is — ?iot  to  cut  off 
Olga  Ventnor's  head,  but — lier  hair  ! 

Olga  is  awake,  is  staring  at  her,  frozen  with  fright. 
She  has  not  counted  on  that,  and  with  a  snarl  of  baffled 
malice,  she  plunges  her  hand  in  the  golden  tresses,  and 
uplifts  the  scissors.  But  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye 
the  child  springs  from  the  bed,  rushes  from  the  room, 
shrieking  like  a  mad  thing.  There  is  a  heavy  fall,  the 
sound  of  startled  voices  up-stairs,  and  opening  doors. 
In  that  moment  the  scissors  are  flung  aside.  Joanna 
is  out  of  the  window,  and  away  like  the  wind  to 
Black's  Dam. 


♦•»- 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE  ABBOTTS  OF  ABBOTT  WOOD. 

HREE  miles  away  from  Sleaford's  Farm,  and 
nearly  four  from  Ventnor  Villa,  there 
stands  the  stateliest  mansion  in  all  the 
country  round,  the  pride,  the  marvel,  the 
show  place  of  Brightbrook.  It  is  down  on  the  coast ; 
the  waves  of  the  Atlantic  wash  up  to  the  low  sea  wall 
that  divides  it  from  a  shelving  and  sandy  beach.  A 
beautiful  beach,  of  late  years  known  to  fame,  and 
spoiled  for  all  lovers  of  the  quietly  picturesque  by 
being  transformed  into  a  popular  watering-place.  But 
in  these  days,  fashion  and  capitalists  have  not  marked 
it  for   their   own,  and   Brightbrook  Beach  is  an  en- 


THE  ABBOTTS   OF  ABBOTT  WOOD. 


55 


I  Ui-i 


clinntcci  spot,  on  whose  fine  white  Pands  you  may  lie 
the  hjtig  summer  day  through,  lazy,  and  happy,  and 
cool,  and  watch  the  sea-gulls  swirl  overhead,  and  the 
little,  limpid,  oily  waves  wash  and  whisper  up  to  your 
very  feet. 

The  tiiermoraeter  may  stand  among  the  hundreds 
elsewhere,  down  here  it  is  cool  as  some  merman's  grot. 
Tiiere  are  always  breezes,  and  fishing  boats,  and  far- 
off  yachts,  and  forever  ar.d  forever  the  beautiful, 
changeful,  illimitable  sea.  Or  you  may  lean  over  JMr. 
Abbott's  low  stone  wall  in  wild  weather,  the  wind 
blowing  great  guns,  both  hands  clutching  your  hat, 
and  watch  with  awe-stricken  eyes  the  spirit  of  the 
slonn  abroad  on  the  waters.  The  great  beetling 
green  waves  leap  up  like  Titans,  dashing  their  frothy 
spray  in  your  face  ;  the  roar  is  as  the  crash  of  Niagara. 
Fascinated,  you  may  stand  for  hours  watching  this 
war  of  the  gods,  and  go  home,  at  last,  inclined  to 
opine  that  Brightbrook  Beach  in  a  storm  is  even  more 
bewitching  than  Brightbrook  Beach  in  summer  sweet- 
ness and  sun-zhine,  and  to  envy  John  Abbott,  Esquire, 
his  handsome  home,  his  beautiful  wife,  his  pretty  littlo 
daughter,  his  colossal  bank  account,  and,  most  of  all, 
tliat  grand  old  ocean  lying  there  for  his  perpetual 
pleasure,  a  thing  of  beauty  and  a  joy  forever. 

If  Mr.  Abbott's  taste  in  a  site  is  good,  his  style  of 
architecture  lies  open  to  question.  It  is  a  house  as 
much  like  an  old  Baronial  Hall  as  a  genuine  American 
country-house  can  ever  make  up  its  mind  to  be, 
"What  Mr.  Abbott's  idea  in  building  a  castle  is,  is 
known  to  Mr.  Abbott  only.  A  grand  Elizabethan 
manor,  with  turrets,  and  peaked  gables,  and   quaint, 


} 


.w  ; 


-'ill    !'! 


! 


1 


liii    , 


■'J 


66 


THE  ABBOTTS   OF   ABBOTT  WOOD. 


vino-clad  stone  porches,   and  painted   windows,  with 
stone  mullions. 

It  is  new,  and  it  looks  three  hundred  years  old  at 
least,  and  reflects  some  of  its  seeniini^  grandeur  and 
antiquity  upon  its  master,  perhaps.  And  Mr.  Abbott 
needs  it.  Jle  is  painfully  new.  lie  would  like  a  moat 
and  a  drawbridge,  and  battlements,  and  a  donjon  keep, 
and  a  man-at-arms  on  the  outer  bastion,  and  he  could 


or,  thouLxh  extremely  new 


have  afforded  them  all. 
he  is  oppressively  rich,  lie  is  so  rich  that  his  wealth 
forces  itself  upon  you  aggressively.  You  are  disposed 
to  resent  it  as  a  direct  personal  affront  ;  no  one  man 
can  logically  have  a  right  to  so  many  millions  in  bank 
shares,  and  bonds,  and  stocks,  to  whole  blocks  in  New 
York  and  Philadelphia,  to  the  larger  half  of  all 
Brightbrook,  to  such  gorgeous  fi.rniture,  inlaid  with 
precious  woods  and  metals,  to  pictures  worth  treble 
their  weight  in  gold,  to  sculpture  such  as  no  one  short 
of  a  prince,  or  grand  duke,  or  Yankee  billionaire  can 
possess,  to  horses  shod  with  the  shoes  of  swiftness,  to 
wines  like  molten  gold  and  rubies,  to  diamonds — 
Koh-i-noors,  says  Brightbrook,  every  gem  of  them.  It 
is  true  Mrs.  Abbott  seldom  wears  these  rich  and  rare 
ornaments,  never,  indeed,  in  Brightbrook,  but  she  has 
them  all  the  same,  and  then,  in  some  ways,  Mrs. 
Abbott  is  a  very — well,  pet ?/7/«r  lady. 

For  that  matter,  Mr.  Abbott  is  a — peculiar — gen- 
tleman also.  His  servants  say  so,  with  bated  breath, 
and  furtive  glances  behind  them ;  all  Brightbrook 
says  it,  as  he  rides  by,  monarch  of  all  he  surveys, 
pompous  and  stout.  Colonel  Ventnor  says  it  with  a 
shrug,  and  holds  rather  aloof  from  him,  although  his 
claret   and   cigars  are,  like   Caesar's   wife,  above  re- 


*  ■ 


THE  ABBOTTS  OF  ABBOTT  WOOD. 


67 


lows,  with 

'ars  old  at 
idcur  and 
[r.  Abbott 
IvG  a  moat 
ijon  keep, 

be  could 
noly  new, 
J  is  wealth 
i  disjiosed 
►  one  man 
s  ill  bank 
:s  in  New 
f  of  all 
laid  with 
tb  treble 
Dnc  sbort 
laire  can 
Ptness,  to 
monds — 

leni.     It 
and  rare 

she  has 
ys,  Mrs. 


ar — gen- 


proacli,  and  be  is  the  only  man  of  quite  bis  own 
siaiidiiK^  in  the  place.  Tlie  two  ladies  are  much 
belter  friends,  despite  tbe  valetudinarian  state  of  the 
one,  and  tbe — jjeculiarity  of  tbe  other. 

When  Brigbtbrook  points  out  to  tbe  stranger  and 
])ilgriin  witbin  its  gates  tbe  wonderful  castellated 
mansion  known  as  Abbott  Wood,  and  expatiates  on 
its  manifold  beauties,  it  never  fails  to  add  a  word  of 
tbe  still  greater  beauty  of  Mv.  Abbott's  wife.  Sbo 
was  a  widow,  ]>rigbtbrook  will  tell  you  confidentially, 
wbGn  Mr.  Abbott  married  her,  a  Mrs.  Lamar,  widow 
of  a  young  Southern  officer,  and  motber  of  a  six-year- 
old  bo}',  very  poor,  very  proud,  with  tbe  bluest  of  all 
blue  Virginian  blood  in  ber  veins,  and  a  pedigree 

"  Ob  !  if  you  come  to  pedigree,"  say?  Brigbtbroo!:, 
with  su]>pressed  triura-iih,  "  there's  a  line  of  anc^^stry, 
if  you  like  !  Dates  back  to  tbe  days  of  Cbarles  the 
Second,  and  Pocabontas,  and  nobody  knows  how  long 
before.  But,  sbe  was  poor,  quite  destitute,  tbey  do 
say,  after  tbe  war,  and — and  Mr.  Abbott  came  along, 
immensely  ricb,  as  you  may  see,  and — she  married  him." 

"  But  you  do  not  mean  to  say,"  cries  tbe  tourist,  a 
little  scandalized,  "that  that  was  whj/  sbe  married 
him.  Because  she  was  quite  destitute,  and  he  was 
immensely  rich  ?" 

"  And  a  very  good  reason,"  responds  Brightbrook, 
stoutly,  "only — tbey  do  say,  be  and  sbe  don't  quite  bit 
it  off  as — well,  ijou  understand  !  Sbe's  a  great  lady, 
and  very  proud — oh  !  most  uncommonly  proud,  we 
must  say,  and  be " 

A  sbrug  is  apt  to  finish  the  sentence. 

"  And  be  is  not,"  supplements  tbe  stranger.     "  No, 
I  should  think  not,  when  be  marries  any  man's  widow 
8* 


:    t 


i  ! 


i 


i; 


i . 


h  ; 


i: 


i ''.' 


j ! 

'1 

i 

I 

til ;  , 

1 
■ 

j 

'j'.  ■ 

i 

¥ 

I 


"  I  r 


diit  *' 


t    ;1 


58 


THE  ABBOTTS   OF  ABBOTT  WOOD. 


on  these  terms,  and  consents  to  be  snubbed  forever 
after.  You  say  slie  snubs  liim?  flings  lier  genealogical 
tree  in  his  face  ;  invokes  the  spirit  of  Pocahontas  and 
the  dead  and  gone  Lamar,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing  ?" 

"  Oh,  dear  no  !"  cries  out  ]jrightbrook,  shocked, 
"  notliing  of  the  kind.  ]Much  too  proud  a  lady  for 
anything  of  that  sort.  Only — only  she  has  a  crushing 
sort  of  way  with  lier — holds  herself  like  this  !" 
Brightbrook  4>raws  itself  haughtily  up,  folds  its 
arms,  and  flings  back  its  head,  "and  looks  at  you  out 
of  a  pair  of  scornful  eyes.  Never  says  a  word,  you 
know,  but  sweeps  out  of  the  room,  like  an  empress 
going  to  the  block.  That  sort  of  thing  puts  a  man 
down,  you  know.  And  then  Mr.  Abbott,  he 
curses." 

"Ah  !  curses,  does  he?"  says  the  tourist,  laughing. 
"  "Well,  that  shows  he  is  human,  at  any  rate.  I 
think  I  might  curse  myself  under  such  provocation. 
The  sweeping,  empress  sort  of  style  must  be  deucedly 
uncomfortable  in  a  wife." 

"  And  when  he  curses,  Mrs.  Abbott  looks  more 
haughty  and  scornful  than  ever.  She's  a  very  pious 
ladv,  Mrs.  Abbott." 

"  Yes,  I  should  think  so  ;  pride  and  piety  make  a 
happy  coml)ination — a  pleasant  curricle  for  any  man 
to  drive.     So  this  maccnilicent  dame  condescends  to 

CD 

go  to  the  village  church  on  Sundays,  and  kneel  among 
you  rustics,  in  perfumed  silks  and  laces,  and  call  her- 
self a  miserable  sinner?  Or,"  seeing  Brightbrook 
vigorously  shaking  its  head,  "perhaps  she  stoops  still 
lower,  and  patronizes  the  camp-moetings  for  which 
your  fine  woods  are  so  taraous  ?  No  again !  Thee 
where  does  she  go  ?" 


►it" 


w 


THE  ABBOTTS   OF   ABBOTT   WOOD. 


50 


I  forever 

ealogical 

nt.is  inul 

thii 


,  ri?> 


n    ' 

.slioclcod, 
lady  for 
criisliiiig 
i   this  !" 
olds    its 
you  out 
3rd,  you 
empress 
s  a  man 
ott,    he 


ugliing. 


5  more 
Y  pious 


"  B!fss  you  !"  crios  Brightbrook,  exultingly,  "  she 
has  a  chapel  of  lior  own  !  And  a  cliaplain.  AjhI  an 
altar.  And  vestments.  And  candles — v,ax.  And  in- 
cense. And  a  little  boy  in  a  purple  silk  dress,  and  a 
white  lace  overdress.  And  the  Rev.  Mr.  Lamb  comes 
down  every  Saturday  night,  and  stays  until  Monday 
niornini^.  They  say  she  goes  to  confession  to  him.  I 
shouldn't  think  jNIr.  Abbott  would  like  that.  Bless 
you,  she's  high — ever  so  high — what's  that  other  word 
now " 

"  Ritualistic — Anglican  ?" 

*'  Thanks,  yes.  And  the  chapel,  St.  Walburga's,  is 
a  wonder  ;  you  really  must  go  over  and  see  it.  The 
carved  wood  from  Belgium,  and  the  painted  windows, 
vith  most  beautifid  saints,  and  the  gold  candlesticks, 
and  the  floor  of  inlaid  wood,  and  carved  stalls  along 
the  sides,  and  no  pews  !  The  pulpit,  they  say,  is  a 
work  of  art,  and  cost  a  little  fortune  abroad.  Artists 
and  that  come  down  from  the  city  and  rave  about  it. 
Oh  !  you  really  must  go  to  St.  Wall^urga's  on  Sunday." 

"  I  really  think  I  must,"  says  the  stranger  and  pil- 
grim, and  very  likely  he  goes,  lie  finds  the  park 
thrown  open  ;  it  actually  is  a  park  of  many  acres,  with 
green  bosky  glades  where  deer  disport,  suidit  terraces, 
where  peacocks  strut,  statues  gleaming  palely  amid 
green  gloom,  flashing  fountains,  casting  high,  cool  jets, 
velvet  lawns,  all  dotted  with  brilliant  beads  of  flowers, 
rose  gardens,  where  every  rose  that  grows  blooms  in 
fragrant  sweetness,  and,  best  of  all,  with  thick  wood- 
land of  maple  and  hemlock,  beech  and  elm,  willow 
and  chestnut  sloping  down  to  the  very  sea.  Rustic 
seats  are  everywhere,  cool  avenues  tempt  the  unwary, 
with  arching  boughs  meeting  overhead,  and  shutting  out 


!  f. 

'"■'    'i  ■ 

t 

i  ' 

j  : 


i 


60 


THE  ABBOTTS  OP  ABBOTT   WOOD. 


the  hot  summer  Sunday  afternoon  sun,  artificial  lakes 
spanned  by  miniature  bridges,  and  tiny  gondolas,  fish- 
ponds, where  swans  float,  and  gold  and  silver  beauties 
sparkle.  There  is  a  gate-lodge  that  is  a  very  bower  of 
sweetbriar  and  climbing  pink  roses.  All  this  loveli- 
ness is  thrown  open  to  lirightbrook  every  Sunday,  and 
nothing  pleases  the  master  of  Abbott  Wood  better 
than  to  see  his  grounds  filled  with  wondering,  admir- 
ing, well-dressed  people.  He  comes  out  among  tlxiso 
faithful  retainers,  nearly  all  his  tenants,  and  patronizes 
them  blandly  and  oppressively. 

Strains  of  music  float  from  the  painted  windows  of 
St.  Walburga's,  and  you  are  expected  to  assist  at 
"vespers,"  as  a  delicate  attention  to  my  lady.  If  you 
are  a  city  stranger,  you  will  most  probably  be  singled 
out  by  the  watchful  eye  of  Mr.  Abbott,  and  taken 
through  the  house.  You  will  see  armor  and  stags' 
heads  in  the  hall — a  hall  wide  enough  to  drive  the  pro- 
verbial "  coach-and-four  "  throujxh,  a  threat  carved  chim- 
ne3'-piece  with  a  coat-of-arms.  It  is  the  heraldic  de- 
vice of  Mrs.  Abbott's  family,  and  it  is  everywhere, 
emblazoned  in  the  panes,  in  the  wood-work,  on  the 
covers  of  the  books.  The  rooms  are  all  loftj'^,  frescoed 
or  satin-draped,  filled  with  objects  of  "  bigotry  and 
virtue," — the  furniture — but  the  pen  of  an  upholsterer, 
or  a  Jenkins,  would  be  required  to  describe  that. 
There  are  rooms  in  blue  satin,  rooms  in  luby  velvet, 
rooms  in  amber  reps,  rooms  in  white  and  gold,  a  libra- 
ry all  rose-red  and  dark  oak,  a  picture-gallery  wi,th 
portraits  of  the  present  house  of  Abbott,  master  and 
mistress,  Mr.  Geoffrey,  and  Miss  Leonora.  There  are 
flowers,  and  birds,  and  beauty,  and  brilliance  every- 
where. 


THE  ABBOTTS  OF  ABBOTT  WOOD. 


61 


cial  I.ikog 
<-)l;is,  fisli- 
r  beauties 
l)o\vor  of 
lis  lovoli- 
i<l;iy,  and 
)cl  better 
1^,  adinir- 

)llg  tl)(!SG 

atronizes 

idows  of 

a.ssist  at 

If  von 

sinii^led 
d  taken 
d  staus* 
the  pro- 
ed  chim- 
ddic  de- 
ywlicre, 

on  the 
'rescoed 
try  and 
)Isterer, 
>e  tJiat, 
velvet, 
a  libra- 
y  \\\\.\\ 
ter  and 
ere  are 
every- 


You  go  into  the  chapel,  and  its  dim  religion'^  light 
soot  lies  your  daz/led  eyes  and  excited  senses,     'i'he  or- 
eaii  is  playing — my  lady  herself  is  organist — some  soft 
3I(izarlian  melody.     Up  in  the  pulpit,  that  costly  an- 
ti(]ue  u'ork  of  art  and  oak,  kneels  the  Reverend  Igna- 
tius Lamb,  in  surplice  and  stole,  his  eyes  closed,  his 
haixls  clasped,  in  an  ecstasy  !     He  is  suspected  of  a 
leaning  Home-ward,  but  it  certainly  does  not  extend 
to  his  nose,  which  is  snub,      k  pre'ity  curly-haired  boy 
in  the  i)urj>le  silk  and  snowy  laces  of  acolyte,  stands 
kIowIv  swinixinLr  his  censer,  vice  Master  Geoff  rev  Lamar, 
retired.     GeolTrey  Lamar  is   there,  though,  a  strong- 
looking   young   fellow  of   sixteen   or   so,   with  close- 
cropped  dark  hair,  a  sallow  complexion,  and  a  rather 
haughty-looking    face.      He     has    not    inherited    his 
mother's  beauty — he  is  by  no  means  a  liandsome  boy. 
IJy  his  side,  very   sitnply  dressed,   in   dotted   muslin, 
pits  his  half-sister.  Miss  Leonora  Abbott,  a  tiny  fairy 
of  eight,  with  a  dark,  piquant  face,  dark  loose  hair, 
the  little  young  lady  of  the  house,  sole  child  of  John 
Abbott,    millionaire.     Sole  child,    but   not   one    whit 
more  to  him  than  his  wife's  son,  the  scion  of  the  dead 
and  blue-blooded  Lamar.     It  is  well  known  that  Ab- 
bott Wood  and  half  his  fortune  are  to  be  his,  that  he 
looks  to  this  lad  to  perpetuate  the  family  greatness — 
to  merge  his  own  obscurity  in  the  blaze  of  the  Lamar 
hrillianoe,  and   become   the  ancestor  of  a   lonir   line 
of  highly-fed,   highly-bred,    highly-wed   descendants. 
Every  man  has  his  hobby,  this  is  John  Abbott's.     He 
is  self-made,  he  takes  a  boisterous,  Bounderby  sort  of 
pride  in  proclaiming  it.     lie  is  an  uneducated  man, 
thai  speaks  for  itself,  it  is  unnecessary  to  proclaim  it. 
He  is  a  vulgar  man,  a  loud-talking,  dccD-driuking. 


,'  I 


<■ 


.■|  f 


!'! 


\\\l 


-■fvu»^ 


"B 


62 


THE   ABBOTTS   OF  ABBOTT   WOOD. 


i;,i 


,11 


iiiil 


i! 


I  ill       "111' 


aggressive,    pompons,   pursc-j)roiKl   man.     Ilis   wife's 
gnests   were   wont  to  shrng  tlieir  shoulders,  sujtjiress 
significant  smiles,  or  protrude   delicate  under  lips  as 
tliey  listened.     And  seeing  this,  iNIrs.  Abbott  has  given 
up  society,  that  super-refined  pride  of   hers   has   been 
excoriated  a  hundred  times  a  day  by  the  rich  clod  she 
calls  husband.     She  has  renounced  society,  buried  her 
self  in   the  solitude  of  Abbott  Wood,  with  only  her 
books,  her  music,  her  easel,  her  children,  for  company. 
^hii  sees  as  little  of  Mr.  Abbott  as  possible  ;  she  is 
always  perfectly  polite  to  him,  she  defers  to  his  wishes, 
and  is  a  supremely  miserable  woman.     Even  her  piety 
fails  to  comfort  her,  and  she  is  very  much  in  earnest, 
poor  lady,  with  her  pretty,  picturesque,  lady-like  relig- 
ion.    She  works  altar-cloths  and  copes,  with  gorgeous 
bilks,  and  bullion,  and  gold  fringe  ;  she  reads  lier  high- 
<^hurch  novels  ;  she  plays  Mozart  in  the  twilight,  and 
tiings  in  Gregorian  chant  in  the  chapel,  but  all  in  vain — 
that  settled  unrest  and  misery  leaves  her  not.    "  Dona 
nobis  pacem  "  sounds  from  her  lips  like  the  very  cry 
cf  a  soul  in  pain,  but  peace  is  not  given.     She  despises 
^jer  husband,  his  loud  vulgarity  and  blatant  purse-pride, 
while  her  own  heart  is  eaten  to  the  core  with  that  other 
pride  which  the  world  tolerates  and  honors,  pride  of 
birth  and  long  lineage,  and  which,  perhaps,  in  the  eyes 
of  Him  before  whom  kings  are  dust,  is  quite  as  odious 
as  the  other.     Perhaps  that  peace  she  seeks  so  despair- 
ingly might  be  found,  if  she  hearkened  a  little  to  the 
text  from  which   the   Reverend    I^jnatius  is  fond  of 
preaching,  "  Learn  of  Me,  for  I  am  meek  and  humble 
of  heart,  and  ye  shall  find  rest  for  your  souls." 

For  Mr.  Abbott — well,  he  is  sharper-sighted  than 
bis  wife  gives  him  credit  for,  in  spite  of  chill  defer- 


TTTE  ABBOTTS   OF  ABBOTT  WOOD. 


63 


is  ^vifc'^'^ 
suj>|)rt'S9 
r  lips  as 
I  as  given 
ins  been 
clod  slie 
rieil  her 
only  lier 
ompany. 

;  she  is 
s  wishes, 
»er  piety 
earnest, 
ke  relig- 
^orgeous 
ler  hi<>h- 
ght,  and 
n  vain — 

"  Dona 
^ery  cry 
despises 
3e-pride, 
lat  other 
pride  of 
the  eyes 
s  odious 
despair- 
3  to  the 
fond  of 

humble 

ed  than 
1  defer- 


ence a!id  proud  politeness,  he  knows  that  she  scorns 
and  disdains — that  she  has  scorned  and  disdaitied  him 
from  the  first.  And  he  resents  it,  silently,  ])assion- 
atelv.  He  loves  liis  wife.  She  would  o\)Qn  those  dark, 
hisU'ous  eyes  cf  hers  in  wondering  contempt,  if  she 
knew  how  well.  J3ut  she  does  not  know  it — the  scorn 
in  her  eyes  would  drive  him  to  murder  her  almost,  and 
he  knows  that  scorn  would  be  there.  Coarse  braggart 
and  rich  -pstart  he  may  be,  but  he  would  lay  down 
that  strong  life  of  his  for  her  sake.  And  that  she  is 
colder  than  marble,  less  responsive  than  ice,  is  at  the 
bottom  of  more  than  half  these  lierco  outbursts  of 
ancjer  that  so  disgust  and  repel  her.  Abbott  Wood  is 
a  roomy  mansion,  and  more  than  one  skeleton  abides 
therein. 

It  has  been  said  that  something  of  mystery  hangs 
over,  and  makes  interesting,  the  master  of  the  house. 
Colonel  Ventnor,  riding  with  him  one  day,  has  seen  a 
liltle  corner  of  that  dark  curtain  which  shrouds  his 
past,  lifted.  It  was  at  the  time  Ventnor  Villa  was 
being  built.  Mr.  Abbott,  glad  of  such  a  neighbor, 
had  interested  himself  a  good  deal  in  the  proceedings, 
and  saved  the  colonel  a  number  of  trips  down  from 
the  city.  Colonel  Ventnor,  a  refined  man  in  all  his 
instincts,  did  not  much  like  the  rough-and-ready  lord 
of  Abbott  Wood,  but  he  was  obliged  by  his  good- 
nature, and  accepted  it.  It  had  happened  some  four 
years  before  this  memorable  evening  on  which  little 
Olga  loses  herself  in  the  woods. 

It  is  a  dark  and  overcast  autumn  eveninjx,  threat- 


s' 


en  nig  ram. 
they  ride  slowly 
tailing,  with  the 


Leaving  the  villa  and  the  workmen, 
ong  the  high-road,  Mr.  Abbott  de- 
isto  customary  with  him  when  talk- 


■|:J 


I;.:, 


I,: 

^  i  I 

n 


1^     ' 
'III 


:  .  1 

ll!- 

■i  ! 


61 


THE   ABBOTTS   OF   ABBOTT   WOOD. 


ii!l' 


!un 

I 

■t  i 

■ 

1 

f 

r 

1 

II 

ing  of  liimsclf,  sonic  of  liis  adventures  as  a  San  Fran- 
cisco broker  and  si)eculator  in  '40.  Suddenly  liis  liorso 
shies  as  a  man  sprinf^s  forward  from  under  a  tree,  and 
stands  directly  before  him. 

"  Blast  you  i"  roars  Mr.  Abbott,  "  what   the 

are  you  about  ?  You  nearly  threw  me,  you  beufgar  ! 
What  d'ye  mean  by  jumping  before  a  gentleman's 
horse  like  this  ?" 

"  ]>eg  pardon,  sir,"  says  the  man,  with  a  grin  and 
a  most  insolent  manner,  "didn't  go  for  to  do  it,  Mr. 
Abbott.  Don't  use  your  iiorsewhip,  sir,"  for  Mr.  Ab- 
bott has  raised  it ;  "  you  might  be  sorry  to  strike  an 
old  friend." 

lie  removes  his  ragged  hat  as  lie  speaks,  and  tho 
fading  light  falls  full  upon  him.  John  Abbott  reels 
in  his  saddle,  the  whip  drops  from  his  liand,  his  florid 
face  turns  livid. 

"  It  is  Sleaford  !"  lie  gasps,  "by  G !" 

Colonel  Ventnor  looks  at  him.  lie  is  a  gentleman 
in  the  best  sense  of  the  much-abused  word — he  swears 
not  at  all.  Then  he  looks  at  the  tramp.  Tie  is  a 
svvarth-skinned,  black-looking  vagabond,  as  perfect  a 
type  of  tlie  loafer  and  blackguard,  he  thinks,  as  he 
has  ever  seen. 

"I  will  ride  on,  Mr.  Abbott,"  he  says,  quietly  ; 
"  ranch  obliged  for  your  good-nature  about  those  men. 
Good-night." 

"  Stay  !  hold  on  !"  cries  Mr.  Abbott.  The  color 
comes  back  with  a  purple  rush  to  his  face,  his  eyes 
look  wild  and  dilated.  "  I — I  do — I  have  known  this 
fellow  in  California.  lie's  a  poor  devil  that  used  to 
work  for  me.  I  haven't  anything  to  say  to  him  in 
private.    You  needn't  hurry  on  his  account,  you  know.'* 


'A 


THE   ABIJOTTS   OF   ABHOTT   WOOD. 


05 


"Oh,    certainly   not,"    responds    Colonel  Ventnor. 


i>« 


"Still,  as  tlicrcj  is  a  storm  hrcwitifr,  1  tlmik  it  wi 
wc'l.  to  get  to  the  hotel  at  oiiee,  and  so  avoid  a 
d^eIlehin'^  I  will  see  you  again  before  I  return  to 
toun." 

He  lifts  his  liat  and  rides  away,  but  not  before  ho 
has  heard  the  hoarse  laugh  of  the  tramp,  as  lu?  lays 
his  hand  with  the  same  impudent  familiarity  on  ^Ir. 
Abbott's  bridle. 

Next  day,  wlien  ho  returns  to  the  villa,  ho  finds  that 
gcntleinau  waiting  for  hini,  and  issuing  sonorous  orders 
to  the  masons,  lie  is  almost  offensive  in  his  ofHcious 
friendliness  and  voluble  explanations. 

"A  poor  beggar,  sir,  that  I  knew  out  in  'Friseo. 
Knew  all  sorts  out  there — hundreds  of  the  great  un- 
washed, miners,  gamblers,  blaeklegs,  all  sorts.  Had 
to,  you  know,  in  my  business.  Sometimes  made  some 
of  them  useful — a  man  has  to  handle  dirty  tools  in 
most  trades,  you  know.  This  fellow  was  ono  of  them. 
Sleaford  his  narao  is — Giles  Sleaford,  a  harmless 
beggar,  but  lazy  as  the  deuce.  Think  I  must  do  somo- 
tliiiig  for  him  for  old  acquaintance  sake.  Got  a  largo 
family,  too — lots  of  boys  and  girls — quite  a  'numerous 
father,'  as  they  say.  Where's  the  good  of  being  as 
rich  as  Rothschild  if  a  man's  not  to  do  good  with  it? 

D it  all  !    let  us   help   ono'  another,  I   say,  and 

when  we  see  an  unfortunate  chap  down,  let  us  set  him 
on  his  legs  again.  I  think  I'll  let  Sleaford  have  the 
Red  Farm  ;  there's  nobody  there,  and  it's  a  capital 
bit  of  land.  He  wasn't  half  a  bad  sort  ;  there  were  a 
devilish  deal  worse  fellows  than  Black  Giles  out  in  San 
Francisco." 

Colonel  Yentnor  assents  politely,  and  keeps  bis  own 


t; 


( 


t  i 


!.' 


'I 


]l 


'I        i 


t\  , 


I 

i 


W, 


80 


TIIK   AnnOTTS   OF    AnnOTT    WOOD. 


n   !• 


oi)inion  of  i\[r.  Abbott's  dark  friend  to  himself.  Mr, 
Al>l><)tt  li.iH  been  lookiiii?  bim  in  tho  eye,  in  a  very 
niark(Ml  inaniior,  durinij  ibi.s  lillUj  spcccii.  It  is  a 
glance  ibat  says  jibiinly  enous^b,  "  This  is  my  version 
of  tli(!  affair — I  expect  you  to  believe  it,  or  take  tbo 
consequences."  But  Colonel  Ventnor's  quiet  bigb- 
bnteding  is  too  much  for  poor  j\Ir.  Abbott  always.  It 
])Uts  bim  in  a  silent  rauje,  much  as  bis  wife's  calm,  up- 
lifted repose  of  manner  does. 

"Curse  tbom  all!"  be  thinks;  "these  aristocrats 
are  all  alike.  Look  down  on  a  man  as  the  dirt  under 
their  feet,  if  ho  ain't  brought  up  to  parley  voo  fransey 
and  jabber  German  and  that.  And  they  can  do  it 
with  a  look  too,  without  a  word  of  bluster  or  noise.  I 
defy  any  man  alive  to  stand  up  before  the  missis  wlien 
she's  in  one  of  her  white,  speechless  rages,  and  look 
her  in  the  eye.     I  wish  I  knew  how  they  do  it." 

He  sighs,  takes  olT  his  hat,  scratches  his  head  per- 
plexedly with  his  big,  brown,  brawny  hand,  and  slaps 
it  on  again  a  little  more  defiantly  cocked  than  before. 
"And  now  liere's  IJlack  Giles,"  he  thinks,  gloomily, 
"  as  if  I  hadn't  enough  on  my  mind  without  hitn.  I 
wonder  how  much  he  knows — I  wonder— 


5> 


He  mounts  his  horse  and  rides  off,  pondering 
gloomily,  in  the  direction  of  the  Red  Farm.  It  was  a 
different-looking  place  in  those  days  to  what  it  became 
later.  Mr.  Abbott  was  a  very  thorough  landlord,  no 
tenant  might  wreck  and  ruin  any  farm  of  his.  Tiiis 
Red  Farm,  so  called  from  the  color  of  the  house,  and 
the  great  maples  burning  scarlet  about  it,  was  one  of 
the  choicest  bits  of  land  in  the  State,  and  in  high  cul- 
tivation. And  here  the  Sleaford  family  came,  two 
boys,  three  girls,  the  youngest  a  mere  child  then,  but 


THE   AimOTTS   OF    AimOTT   WOOD. 


67 


a  woinM(H)kinG:,  oowod  afarvoling — and  sq}iafted.  It 
CoiiM  not  1)0  ciillo(l  jinythijig  olso  ;  (Jilcs  SUvifonl 
l:uii;Iii'fl  from  tlio  first  at  the  notion  of  his  fartnini;,  or 
even  niakii)<:f  tlic  ))r('tt*xt.  The  boys  wcro  liko  wild 
Indians — thi-y  fisht'd,  sliot,  snared  birds  and  rabbits, 
stole  melons,  robbed  orchards,  were  a  nnisanoe  gener- 
ally, and  let  the  farm  look  after  itself.  The  «jfirls  were 
of  the  satno  ne'er-do-well  stamp,  boisterous  yonng 
hoidens,  handsome  "  prize  animal  "  sort  of  damsels, 
with  llashinuj  black  eyes,  and  impndent  retorts  for  all 
who  accost  thera.  The  neighbors  wonder — vhi/  <loes 
Mr.  Abbott,  that  most  panienlar  gentleman,  let  this 
wild  lot  ruin  the  Red  Farm,  and  bear  it  like  the  meek- 
est of  men?  Why  does  Giles  Sleaford  always  have 
well-filled  pockets,  good  horses  and  clothes,  whether 
he  works  or  idles  ?  They  ask  the  question  more  than 
once,  and  he  laughs  loud  and  long. 

"  Win/  does  he?"  he  cries.  "  Lord  love  you,  that's 
little  of  what  he  would  do  for  me.  He  loves  me  like 
a  brother.  He's  m  uncommon  fine  gentleman,  ain't 
he?  and  got  a  lovely  place,  and  a  handsome  wifn — so  I 
hear.  I  haven't  been  there  to  leave  my  card  yet.  Vf  liy 
does  he  ?  Bless  your  souls,  he  would  turn  out  of  his 
big  house  and  give  it  to  me,  if  I  coaxed  him  hard 
enough." 

Brightbrook  does  not  know  what  to  make  of  it.  It 
whispers  a  good  deal,  and  looks  furtively  at  the  rich 
man  riding  by.  What  secret  has  he  in  his  life,  that 
Giles  Sleaford  is  paid  to  keep?  He  looks  like  a  man 
who  might  have  a  dark  record  behind  him.  And  what 
would  Mrs.  Abbe 


bott  does  not  k 


say 


does  not  reach  her  :   she 


lives 


in  a  rar 


efied 


now,  gossip 
atmosphere  of  her  own,   with  her 


I'' 

'     / 

I  e 

i. 


ii 


1 ) 


ill 


■•is 


r' 


w 


68 


THE  ABBOTTS   OF   ABBOTT   WOOD. 


-  M 


»i 


i\\]l 


m 


dainty  work,  her  ornament??,  her  children,  and  the  ple- 
beian name  of  Slcaford  penetrates  it  not. 

And  80  years  go  on.  The  Red  Farm  goes  to  ruin. 
Colonel  Ventnor  and  family  (!ome  with  the  primroses, 
and  depart  with  the  swallows.  Ahbott  Wood  grows 
more  beautiful  with  every  passing  year,  and  the  skele- 
tons in  its  closets  grin  silently  there  still,  when  it  falls 
out  that  this  summer  evening  Olga  Ventiior  goes 
astray  in  the  woods,  and  before  ten  at  night  all 
Brightbrook  is  up  and  in  quest. 

sjc  :)(  %  He  %  % 

"She  may  be  ai;  Abbott  Wood,"  Frank  Livingsto  ■ 
suggests — Frank  Livingston,  calm  and  unflurried  in 
the  midst  of  general  dismay.  It  is  a  theory  of  this 
young  man's  that  things  are  sure  to  come  right  in  the 
end,  and  that  nothing  is  worth  bothering  about  ;  so, 
though  a  trifle  anxious,  he  is  calm.  "  She  spoke  to 
me,"  he  adds,  with  a  twinge  of  remorse,  "this  after- 
noon about  taking  her  there.  Promised  to  go  over 
and  pla}  croquet  with  Leo  and  Geoff." 

Colonel  Ventnor  waits  for  no  more.  He  dashes 
spurs  into  his  red  roan  steed,  and  gallops  like  a  mad- 
man to  Abbott  Wood.  On  the  steps  of  the  great 
portico  entrance  he  sees  the  master  of  the  mansion, 
smoking  a  cigar,  and  looking  flushed  '^nd  angry.  A 
domestic  white  squall  has  just  blown  over — not  with 
the  "  missis  ;"  there  are  never  squalls,  white  or  black, 
in  that  quarter — with  one  of  the  kitchen-maids,  who 
had  done,  or  undone,  something  to  offend  him.  lie 
l)as  flown  into  a  tremendous  passion  with  liie  fright- 
ened woman,  cursing  up  hill  and  down  dale  with  a 
heartiness  and  fluency  that  would  have  done  credit  to 
that  past-master  of  the  art  of  blasphemy,  Sleaford  him- 


THE   ABBOTTS   OF  ABBOTT   WOOD. 


69 


self.  The  fact  is,  his  wife  had  put  hitn  out  at  dinner, 
as  she  has  a  way  of  doing,  and  his  slumbering  wrath 
lias  had  to  find  vent  somewhere.  Now  the  fuming 
volcano  is  calming  itself  down  in  the  peaceful  night 
air,  with  the  help  of  a  soothing  cigar.  lie  stares  to 
see  tiie  colonel  ride  up,  all  white  and  breathless. 

"  Little  Olga  ?  No,  she  wasn't  there — hadn't  been 
— was  perfectly  sure  of  it.  Lost  ! — the  colonel  did 
not  say  so  !     How  was  it  ?" 

In  a  few  rapid  sentences  Colonel  Ventnor  tells  hira. 
Mr.  Abbott  listens  with  open  mouth. 

"By  jingo  !  poor  little  lass  !  lie  will  join  the  hunt 
immediately.  That  French  woman  ought  to  have  her 
neck  wrung.  He  would  be  after  the  colonel  in  a 
twinkling." 

And  he  is — mounted  on  his  powerful  black  liorse. 
And  all  night  long  the  woods  are  searched,  and  morn- 
ing comes,  and  finds  the  missing  one  still  missing. 
Tiie  sun  rises,  and  its  first  beams  fall  upon  John 
Abbott,  tired  and  jaded,  coming  upon  Sleaford's.  It 
is  a  place  he  avoids  ;  he  looks  at  it  now  with  a  scowl, 
and  for  a  moment  forgets  what  he  is  in  search  of.  No 
one  has  thought  of  looking  here  ;  neither  does  he. 
He  is  about  to  turn  away,  when  the  house  door  opens, 
and  Giles  Sleaford,  unwashed  and  unshorn,  comes 
forth. 

''  Hullo  !"  he  says,  roughly  ;  "  you  !  What  may 
y  ni  want  this  time  o'  day  ?" 

"We  are  looking  for  the  colonel's  little  girl.  You 
haven't  seen  her,  I  suppose  ?"  says  Mr.  Abbott,  quite 
civilly. 

"  ilaven't  I  ?"  growls  Black  Giles  ;  "  that's  all  you 
know  about  it.     I  have  seen  her.     She's  here,  and  I 


W'\ 


r 
i 

i 

\ 

f 

! 

;    i      ; 

:1m 

111:. 


Ui 


70 


THE   ABBOTTS    OF   ABBOTT    WOOD. 


wish  she  was  anywhere  else,  kcepiiic^  honest  people 
from  their  sleep.  She's  in  there  fast  enough  if  you 
want  her.  Why  doesn't  her  own  dad  come  after  her? 
T  should  think  yon  had  enougli  to  do  to  mind  your 
own  young  'uns,  and  your  wife,  from  all  I  hear." 

lie  laughs  a  hoarse,  impu<lent  laugh,  that  brings 
the  choleric  blood  into  tJohn  Abbott's  face,  and  a 
demon  into  either  eye.  But,  wonderful  to  relate,  he 
restrains  himself. 

Other  members  of  the  hunt  ride  up  now,  and  it  is 
discovered  that  little  Miss  Olga  is  very  ill,  and  nearly 
out  of  her  senses — why,  nobody  knows.  She  woke  up 
in  the  night,  Lora  supposes,  and  finding  inerself  alone, 
took  fright,  and  ran  screaming  out  into  the  passage, 
and  there  fell,  striking  her  head  against  the  bottom 
stair,  and  hurting  herself  badly.  Whether  from  the 
hurt  or  the  fright,  she  is  at  present  in  a  very  bad  way, 
and  there  is  not  a  moment  to  be  lost  in  removing  lier. 
Frank  is  of  the  party.  He  takes  his  insensible  little 
cousin  in  his  arms  and  kisses  her,  with  tears  of  genu- 
ine remorse  in  his  boyish  eves.  If  he  had  gone  with 
her  as  she  wished,  ihis  wouid  never  have  happened. 
Now  she  may  never  ask  him  for  anything  in  this 
world  again.  As  he  carries  her  out,  a  small  figure, 
looking  like  a  walking  scarecrow,  with  wild  ha-ir,  pale 
face,  torn  skirts,  bare  legs  and  feet,  comes  slowly  an<i 
sullenly  forward,  and  watches  him  and  his  burden 
with  lowering,  scowling  glarxje. 

*'  Here  you,  Joanna  !""  call."^  out  one  of  the  Sleafon' 
girls,  sharply.  "Come  into  the  house,  and  help  redd 
up.  Come  in,  this  minute  !''  with  a  stamp  of  her  foot, 
"  if  you  don't  want  a  little  more  of  what  you  g9t  -a-st 
night." 


THE  ABBOTTS  OF  ABBOTT  WOOD. 


71 


Tlie  girl  makes  no  reply.  She  slowly  obeys,  but 
her  eyes  linger  to  the  last  on  Frank  Livingston  and 
his  cousin.  All  tlie  long  light  curls  fall  over  his 
shoulder,  the  poor  little  fcver-llushed  face  is  hidden 
on  his  breast. 

"One  of  yours,  Sleaford?"  says  Mr.  Abbott,  gra- 
ciously, looking  after  Joanna.  "  I  didn't  know  you 
had  one  so  young." 

There  is  nothing  in  this  speech  apparently  to  pro- 
voke laughter,  nor  is  it  a  time  for  mirth,  but  such  is 
its  effect  on  ]\Ir.  Sleaford.  He  opens  his  huge  mouth, 
and  emits  such  a  roar  that  the  whole  group  turn  and 
look  at  him  indignantly.  The  joke  is  so  exquisite 
that  he  heeds  not,  but  laughs  until  the  tears  start  from 
his  bleary  eyes. 

"  Glad  you  find  me  so  funny,"  says  Mr.  Abbott, 
huffily.  "You  ain't  always  in  such  good  humor  this 
time  of  morning,  are  you?"  And  then,  as  Mr.  Slea- 
ford's  only  response  is  to  take  out  his  pipe,  and  indulge 
in  another  fit  of  hilarity,  he  turns  and  rides  indig- 
nantly away  in  the  rear  of  his  party. 

Mr.  Giles  Sleaford,  left  alone  in  his  retre?..^  smokes 
between  his  expiring  gasps  of  laughter,  and  solilo- 
quizes : 

"'Is  she  one  of  yours,  Sleaford ?'  And  'I  didn't 
know  you  had  one  so  young  !'  O  Lord  !  I  haven't 
laughed  so  much  in  a  month  of  Sundays.  Old  Jack 
Abbott  don't  often  make  jokes,  maybe,  but  wlien  he 
does  they're  rum  'uns.  '  Didn't  know  I  had  one  so 
young !'  It's  the  best  thing  I've  heerd  this  many  a 
day— I'm  dashed  if  it  ain't." 


If 


f       i 


I  i- :■ ' 


1ll[ 


t'? 


i].d 


' 


!     <- 


1 


.■  1 


72 


THE    MISSES  SLKAFOUD  AT  HOME. 


I  |!'i 


CHAPTER    IX. 


li.'ti ; 


i     '  ,<: 


THE  MISSES   SLEAFORD  AT  HOME. 

HE  story  they  tell  is  one  thai,  won't  wash," 
says  Frank  Livingston.  "  I  appeal  to 
yon,  Geoff.  Tiie  notion  of  meeting  a 
M'iUl  gill  in  the  woods,  and  being  half 
scalped  when  Dan  Sleat'ord  finds  lier  !  Then,  when 
they  have  her  safely  honsed  and  .asleep,  of  that  same 
wild  creature  coining  down  tlie  chimney " 

"  Down  the  chimney  ?"  exclaims  Geoffrey  Lamar, 
amazed. 

"  Oh  !  well,  something  very  like  it,  and  going  at 
her  again  with  uplifted  dagger.  It's  a  fishy  sort  of 
yarn  as  they  tell  it.  Bill,"  adds  Frank,  reflectively, 
"  it  is  a  peculiarity  of  Dan  Sleaford's  stories  that  they 
all  have  a  piscatorial  flavor." 

The  two  young  gentlemen  are  pacing  arm  in  arm 
under  the  horse  chestnuts  surrounding  Ventnor  Villa. 
They  form  a  contrast  as  they  slowly  saunter  there — 
young  Livingston  two  years  the  elder,  tall,  slender, 
very  handsome,  quick,  volatile,  restless  ;  young  Lamar 
shorter,  stouter,  with  a  face  that  even  at  fifteen  has  a 
look  of  thought  and  power — a  mouth  with  that  square 
cut  at  the  corners  that  betokens  sweetness  as  well  as 
strength,  steady  gray  eyes,  close-cut  dark  hair,  and 
the  careless,  high-bred  air  of  one  born  to  the  purple. 

"  It  does  sound  rather  oddly,"  he  remarks  ;  "  but 
what  motive  have  they  for  telling  an  untruth?  And 
something  has  frightened  her,  that  is  patent  enough. 
Poor  little  Olga  I"^ 


THE    MTSSF.S    SLEAFORD   AT   HOME. 


73 


i'" 


*'•  they're  a  queer  lot,  those  Sleafords,"  says  Frank, 
reflectively — "a  most  uncommonly  queer  l(»t.  And 
there's  a  mystery  of  some  sort  hanging  over  the  head 
of  the  house.  You  don't  mean  to  say,  old  fellow, 
that,  living  in  Brightbrook  so  long,  you  don't  know 
any  of  them — eli  ?" 

"  Well,  in  point  of  fact,  you  sec,  I  do  7iot  live  in 
Brightbroijk  much.  I  spend  Christmas  and  New 
Year  weeks  down  here,  and  either  the  July  or  August 
of  every  long — but  that  is  all.  One  month  I  give  to 
yachting,  and  then,  of  course,  all  the  rest  of  the  year 
is  spent  at  college.  You  are  here  a  good  deal  more 
than  I  am,  and  Abbott  Wood  is  so  out  of  the  way. 
As  it  hapj)ens,  I  have  never  even  heard  of  these  peo 
pie  until  to-day." 

Frank  stares  at  him,  then  straight  ahead,  and 
whistles. 

"  Well,  that   is I   say — you   don't  mind  my 

asking,  do  you  ?  have  you  never  heard  your  governor 
speak  of  them  ?" 

"  Never." 

"  Because  Black  Giles  seems  to  know  him  most  re- 
markably well.  Says  he  used  to  be  a  pal  of  his,  long 
ago,  out  in  San  Francisco." 

"  What  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  know  it's  a  queer  statement.  And  up  the 
village  they  say " 

He  pauses.  A  deep  line  graves  itself  between 
Geoffrey  Lamar's  eyebrows.  His  step-father  is  a  sen- 
sitive subject  with  hira. 

"Well,"  he  says,  rather  coldly,  "they  say — what?" 

"  I  wouldn't  mention  this  sort  of  thing  if  you  were 
Mr.  Abbott's  son,"  goes  on  Frank,  magnanimously, 


r '  V 


;r 


> 


!! 


74 


THE    MISSES    SLEAFOllD    AT   HOME. 


i<3 


i     )  '  :;i 


i     I  I 


"but  it  is  dilTorcMit  you  know.  Giles  Slcafortl,  wlion 
half  seas  over,  lias  a  way  of  talking — nasty,  swcarini^ 
sort  of  way  that  makes  a  fellow  long  to  piteh  biin  out 
of  the  window — of  your  governor.  Red  Jaek  Ahliott 
— so  the  disresjx'Ctful  old  bloke  calls  him — used  to  be 
out  there  in  San  Franeisco  the  Damon  to  Ids  Pythias. 
13ut  never  nnnd,"  says  Frank,  ])ulling  himself  up,  "you 
don't  like  the  subjict  ;  beg  pardon  for  introducing  it, 
but  I  am  sucii  a  fellow  to  say  whatever  comes  uj^per- 
most.  AH  these  returned  Californians  have  a  shadv 
niilewalk  in  their  past  pathway,  if  we  only  knew  it,  I 
dare  say." 

Geolfrey  Lamar  does  not  seem  to  derive  the  cheerful 
consolation  Frank  intends  from  this  philosoj)hical 
remark.  A  frown  contracts  his  forehead,  and  there 
is  a  pause. 

"  You  know  tliose  people  very  well,"  he  says,  after 
that  full  stop. 

"  Oh  !  uncommon.  I'm  Vami  de  la  maison — I  have 
the  run  of  the  whole  house,  like  the  family  cat.  It's 
uncommonly  jolly.  I'll  fetch  you  some  evening,  if  you 
like.  We  have  musical  and  danc.iable  reunions.  Jud 
plays  the  fiddle,  Dan  the  flute,  Lora  the  banjo,  and 
they  all  can  sing.  Lora  gives  me  lessons  on  the 
banjo  !"  Here  Frank  tries  to  look  grave,  but  suddeidy 
explodes  into  a  great  laugh.  "  And  we  play  euchre 
and  seven-up,  and  I  lose  all  my  loose  cash  regidarly. 
It's  the  best  fun  going.  George  Blake  comes,  and  lots 
more.  I  would  have  asked  you  long  ago,  only  you  are 
such  a  solejun  old  duffer,  and  of  too  aristocratic  a 
stomach  to  digest  such  vulgar  doings.  But  if  you'll 
come  I'll  present  you.  They'll  kow-tow  before  you, 
for  are  jou  not,  oh,  potent  young  seigneur,  the  lord  of 


THE    MISSES    SLEAFOKD    AT    HOME. 


75 


Ihv.'  Innd,  aiul  yon  shall  liavo  a  good  tiiiio.  N(jt  just  at 
once,  of  course  ;  must  wait  until  the  jirincess,  poor 
little  ducky,  is  on  her  little  pins  again  before  I  go  any- 
where." 

It  will  be  observed  that  i\[r.  Frank's  style  of  con- 
vorsatoion  is  exceedingly  drf/af/e — (]nite  free  and  eas}-, 
and  of  the  slang  a  triile  slangy.  The  ))rince  of  wild 
Joanna's  imagination  has  a  most  unprincely  way  of 
expressing  himself. 

"  Say  you'll  come.     Get  rid  of   that  owl-like  face, 
and  stop  trying  to  look  like  your  own  grandfather. 
What  a  fellow  you  are,  Lamar  !    I  would  mope  myself 
into  the  horrors  if  I  lived  as  you  do.     Say  you'll  coint* 
to   the    very   next  Sleaford   swarry.     We  have  clam 
bakes  after  the  concert  and  the  valse  a  denx-temps 
codtish   chowder,  barbecued    rabbit,  and   sich — every 
thing  highly  genteel  and  tn  rcf/le.     And  you  can  wash 
it  down  with  whisky  ad  libitum,  or  you  can  join  the 
ladies  in  cider-cup  and  bottled  lager,  if  you  j>refer  such 
elFemin^ite  tipple.     You  will  come?" 

"  Yes,  I  will  come,"  Geoffrey  answers,  laughing. 
"  These  are  attractions  not  to  be  declined.  I  say  ! 
stop  a  moment,  Livingston — whom  have  we  here  '?" 

A  brilliant,  black-eyed,  buxom  brunette,  dressed  in 
the  loudest  possible  style,  pink,  and  purple,  and  yel- 
low all  swearing  at  each  other  in  her  costume,  ad- 
vances toward  them,  a  green  parasol  shading  her 
already  over-ripe  charms  from  the  too  ardent  glances 
of  the  sun. 

"  What  !"  cries  Frank,  falling  back  and  striking  an 
attitude.  "  Do  these  eyes  deceive  me  ?  That  form — 
that  smile — that  green  umbrella  !  'Tis  she  !  Lora  . 
light  of  my  eyes,  beloved  of  ray  soul,  whither  away 


I 


!  f- 


,y 


>  : 


I 


r 


'  t 


it. 


t 


7G 


THE    MISSES   SLEAFOKD   AT   HOME. 


in  such  li.astc  with  the  thorrnonictcr  up  in  lh(j  nineties. 
What!  still  silent!  Speak,  loveliest  of  thy  sex- 
speak,  ere  I  perish  !  Whither  goest  thou  in  such 
haste  ?" 

JMiss  Lora  Sleaford  furls  her  pjreen  parasol,  not  at 
all  discomposed  by  this  itnj)assi()ned  address,  and  ad- 
ministers a  gentle  rebuke  witii  the  nozzle  across 
Frank's  shMj)ely  nose. 

"  Don't  be  a  donkey,"  is  her  retort.  "I  suppose, 
considering  I  lost  a  night's  slee[)  with  that  little  girl, 
and  had  a  sight  of  trouble  with  her  every  way,  I  have 
a  right  to  walk  up  and  ask  how  she  gets  along.  Why 
weren't  you  there  last  night?" 

"Pressing  business  engagements,  over  which  Iliad 
no  control,  my  dearest  Lora  ;  but  I  see  those  beauteous 
orbs  are  riveted  on  the  inaidy  countenance  of  my 
friend.  He  is  ])erishing  for  an  introduction — was 
begging  me  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  just  before  you  came 
up,  to  obtain  him  the  entree  to  Sleaford's,  and  the  ac- 
quaintance of  Sleaford's  two  lovely  daughters.  Come 
here,  Geoif,  a  moment,  will  you.  Miss  Lora  Sleaford, 
allow  me  to  present  to  you  my  young  friend,  Geoffrv^y 
Valandigham  Lamar." 

Miss  Sleaford  bows  gracefully,  really  gracefully, 
smiles  radiantly — ^black  eyes,  red  cheeks,  coral  lips, 
dazzling  white  teeth,  all  a-sparkle  together.  She  evi- 
dently takes  Frank's  chaff  as  a  thing  of  course,  and  is 
perfectly  veil  used  to  that  style  of  address.  Geoffrey 
laughs,  but  reddens  a  little,  with  some  of  that  becom- 
ing boyish  bashfulness  that  Frank  Livingston  has 
never  known. 

"  Blush  not,  my  Geoffrey  !"  says  that  young  man  of 
the    world,  with   an    encouraging   slap   on   the   back, 


THE     MISSKS    SLKAFOIID    AT    IIO.MK. 


77 


"Miss  Lora's  charms  floor  us  all  at  first,  but  wo  rjot 
uscil  to  'ctn,  after  a  tiino.  So  will  vou.  Don't  bo 
a^iliaineil  of  yourself — speak  to  her  prettily — she's  not 
half  so  digiiiiied,  bless  yon,  iior  unaj)j)r()a{'liabU',  as 
fcilie  looks.  So  you're  going  to  the  house,  are  you, 
Lora  ?  That  is  a  very  pretty  attention  on  your  part. 
The  little  one  is  asleep  now.  Doctor  says  she'll  pull 
through.  But  what  a  queer  go  it  all  is,  this  cock-and- 
bull  story  Dan  tells,  about  a  wild  girl,  and  the  rest  of 
it  !" 

"  It  is  true  enough.  I  guess  it  was  our  Joanna," 
replies  Lora,  coinplacently  adjusting  a  pair  of  flat  gilt 
bracelets. 

"  You  don't  say  so  !  Joanna  !  What  a  little  devil's 
doll  she  is,  to  be  sure.  Shall  wo  see  you  home,  my 
friend  and  I,  after  your  call,  my  Lora  ?  Nothing 
would  give  us  greater  rapture,  you  know." 

But  Miss  Sleaford  declines,  with  a  toss  of  her  white 
feathers.  She  is  not  going  home,  she  is  en  route  for 
Brightbrook — Dan  and  the  trap  are  waiting  outside 
the  gate.  And  so,  with  a  parting  bow  and  smile,  in- 
tended to  do  deadly  execution  on  young  Lamar,  Lora 
trips  away  to  the  hall  door. 

Mrs.  Ventnor,  looking  pale  and  anxious,  receives 
her,  and  thanks  her  in  very  fervent  words,  and  a 
handsome  present  of  jewelry,  for  her  kindness  to  her 
child.  She  h.as  summed  up  Miss  Sleaford  at  a  glance, 
and  sees  she  is  the  type  to  whom  breastpin  and  l)racc- 
lets  are  always  acceptable.  There  is  another  lady  in 
the  room,  a  lady  who  looks  like  a  queen  in  a  picture, 
Lora  thinks,  so  grand,  so  stately,  so  beautiful  is  she. 
She  awes  ev(>n  Miss  Sleafor<l,  who  is  not  easily  awe<]. 
It  is  Mrs.  Abbott,  she  knows  ;  she  has  seeu  her  more 


;   1 


ii 


■■'4 


<     ! 


1 


■'  I 


78 


THE    MISSES    SLEAFOKD   AT   HOME. 


I 


■     I 


I 


!| 


thiin  oiioo  ;  the  mother  of  that  dull,  plaiii-lookincT  yoiinnr 
fcMow  outsido.  And  y<'t,  thoii<i;li  ouv  is  hcautii'id  and 
the  other  ahnost  <l(,'V()id  of  l)eauty,  there  is  a  reseiii- 
bhitiec  between  the  two  faces,  in  the  firm  mouth  and 
proudly-eurvecl  ehin,  in  the  level,  rather  ehill  Ljhmeo 
of  the  full  dark  eye,  in  the  haujj^hty  poise  of  the  head 
and  shouldeis.  For  you  neeil  not  look  twice  at  young 
(leofTrey  Lamar  to  know  that  although  he  has  not 
fallen  heir  to  his  mother's  beauty,  ho  has  to  her  pride. 
This  grand  dame  goes  up  to  Lora,  and  holds  out 
one  lonuf,  slim  white  hand. 


',-i» 


(( 


We   are    all  your  debtors,"  she  says,  in   a  slow, 


sweet,  trained  voice 


In  savimr  our  dear  little  Olira 


you  have  served  us  all.     If  you  will  accept  this,  as  a 
little  token  of  my  great  regard " 


She  slij)S  from  her  finger  a  circlet  of  rubies,  and 
Die  quick  blood  comes  into  Lora  Sleaford's  face. 

"Thank  you,  ma'am,"  she  says,  almost  baslifully. 
With  some  trouble  she  gets  the  rich  hoop  on  one  of 
her  fat  fingers,  and  makes  her  courtesy  and  departs, 
enchanted  with  her  visit  and  its  results. 

But  little  Olga  is  really  very  ill,  and  lies  tossing 
chrough  the  warm  July  days,  fever-flushed,  wild-eyed, 
thirsty,  wandering. 

Over  and  over  again  the  wild  girl  of  the  woods  is 
bending  above  her,  her  hands  in  her  liair,  her  deadly 
weapon  poised,  and  Olga's  shrieks  ring  through  the 
room,  and  they  have  to  hold  her  in  her  bed  by  force. 
All  the  long  lovely  locks  are  cut  off  close,  cruelly 
close  to  the  poor  little  burning  head,  and  there  are  days 
when  neither  doctor  nor  nurse  can  tell  how  that  fierce 
struggle  is  to  end. 

Lora  Sleaford  comes  often  to  inquire,  and  Joanna, 


in% 


TIIK    MrsSKS    ST.EAFOUl)    AT   HOME. 


7G 


crouchinijf  like  a  t')a<l  in  hor  cornor,  Iumps  the  story  of 
tlio    severed    golden    hair.     A  moment  after  she   has 


i'Hit. 


nli|>|)e<l  Iroin  her  plaec,  and  oone  out  info  the  nii 
iShe  throws  herself  (h)\vn  on  the  dark,  dewy  grass,  and 
buries  her  faee  in  her  folded  arms.  She  has  got  tl»e 
desire  of  lier  iieart,  and  she  is  not  glad  ;  a  vagne  so?t 
of  remorse  and  nnrest  iills  jier.  She  did  not  want  to 
kill  this  little  heiress,  oidy  to  frighten  her  ;  to  ent  ofT 
her  hair,  not  to  give  her  a  brain  fever.  If  she  dies, 
will  lliey  hang  her — Joanna  ?  She  knows  Lora  knows, 
and  has  told  others.  Well,  let  them  hang  her  if  they 
like  ;  she  did  not  mean  to  do  it,  and  hanging  cannot 
hurt  much  worse  than  horsewhij>|)ing.  She  does  not 
care  ;  she  is  past  eare,  past  hoj)e,  past  li(Ii».  It  does 
not  matter — nothing  matters.  Better  to  be  dead  at 
onee,  an. I  done  with  it.  ]3ut  she  hopes  this  little  girl 
will  not  die.  And  presently — perhaps  it  is  becausu 
she  is  all  aching  and  half  sick  to-night,  great  tears 
well  up,  and  fdl  and  fall  from  her  eyes,  that  burn  gen- 
erally with  so  baleful  a  light. 

She  ha^  been  beaten  by  Giles  Sleaford,  she  has  liad 
her  ears  boxed  by  Dan,  she  has  been  scolded  by  Liz, 
she  has  woi'ked  like  a  slave  since  early  morning,  she  is 
sore,  and  hungry,  and  hoi)e]ess,  and  sick. 

"I  wish  I  was  dead,"  she  sobs,  her  face  hidden  in 
the  sweet  wet  grass,     "I  wish  I  had  never  been  born  !" 

SJC  *|C  Sf.  y  S(5  •!* 

But  little  Olga  does  not  die.  She  is  a  delicate 
child,  and  it  requires  the  best  of  medical  skill  and 
ceaseless  care  to  bring  her  through.  Tiiere  comes 
what  is  called  the  crisis — there  is  a  night  when  no  one 
at  Ventnor  Villa  nor  Abbott  Wood  thinks  of  sleep — a 
night  when   Frank  Livingston   paces  the   wet   grass, 


II 


W 


!  ! 

!•    1 

,i  ; 

■  !  . 

in 


i|n|! 


I, 

I' 


i    i' 


■  '       JV 


I 


nil' 


80 


THE    MISSES    8LEAF0KI)    AT   JIOME. 


UDclcr  tlio  fiumtnor  star",  unlil  (ljiy-<l;\wn,  filUil  with 
fear  .'uul  ivrnorsc  for  lils  Nh.ire  in  tlio  tragedy — a  iii^i^lit 
■wlicii  Culoiiol  Vc'utiior  walks  tlie  halls  and  passages, 
I)alo  as  no  one  lias  ever  scm'H  liiin  ])alo  before — a  niglit 
when  Mrs.  iVbbott  si(H  through  the  long  mute  hours 
clasping  the  hand  of  the  sick  child's  mother  in  her 
own,  and  with  bated  brcith  watching  for  that  dread 
change.  It  comes,  it  passes,  and  burning  heat  changes 
to  profound  slumber,  and  tossing  delirium  to  genllo 
perspiration,  and  little  Olga  is  saved  ! 

The  news  flies — it  visits  many  homes,  and  some- 
time that  day  reaches  Sleafoid'a,  where  Lora  relates  it 
to  the  family  assembled  at  supper. 

"So  you  see,  little  monkey,"  she  winds  up,  a(hb'ess- 
ing  Joamia,  ''you  ain't  a  murderer  after  all,  and  won't 
be  hanged  f/n's  time.  I*ut  you  had  better  look  out, 
and  not  try  that  sort  of  thing  again.  Vou  mayn't  get 
off  so  easy  another  time." 

"  It's  only  a  question  of  a  year  or  two — eh,  Jo  ?" 
says  Jud  Sleaford,  tweaking  the  girl's  ear.  "  Vou'ro 
bound  to  come  to  it  some  day.  Of  all  the  little  limba 
of  Old  Nick  /ever  met,  you  top  the  lot." 

"I  am  what  you  all  have  made  me,"  the  child 
flashes  out,  with  su(hlen  fire,  jerking  herself  free.  "I 
only  wonder  I  haven't  killed  somebody  long  ago — 
some  of  i/ottf  I  mean.  I  will  yet,  if  you  don't  let  rae 
alone." 

A  growl  from  Giles  silences  her,  but  in  her  poor, 
darkened,  heathenish  little  soul  that  night  there  is  a 
wordless  thanksgiving  for  the  news  she  has  heard. 

"I  don't  know  what  got  into  me,"  she  thinks,  with 
a  feeling  akin  tg  compunction  ;  "she  never  did  nothin* 
to  me  when  all's  said  and  done.     I'm  sorry  I  scared 


m 


THE    MISSES    SLEAFOnn    AT    HOME. 


81 


licr  ;  Tin  sorry,  yoa,  I  am,  that  .slic's  lia>l  to  lose  all  licr 
pretty  hair." 

Tho  other  memhors  of  the  Sleafoid  family  circio 
are  relieved  also,  but  for  a  (lifTerent  reason. 

"I'm  sure  I'm  jjjiad  of  it,"  Liz  says,  in  a  querulous 
ton*? ;  "the  i)lace  has  been  like  a  grave-yard  ever  since 
liiat  night ;  not  a  soul's  been  near  the  house,  ex(X'|)t 
once,  (leorge  IJlaUc.  Can't  we  have  a  dance,  Dan, 
some  night  next  week  V" 

"And  tell  Frank  Livingston,  Da  .,  to  fetch  young 
Lamar,"  suggests  Lora.  "  I  am  dying  for  a  dance.  I 
saw  two  or  three  of  the  girls  down  at  the  Corners 
yesterday,  and  they  were  asking  when  we  meant  to 
have  another  spree." 

"  Dad  means  to  go  to  the  city  next  Tuesday,"  sug- 
gests Ju<l,  "  and  as  he  ain't  particularly  useful  or  orna- 
mental on  aji  occasion  like  that,  I  vote  we  have  the 
high  jinks  while  he's  gone." 

This  resolution  is  unanimously  carried  by  tho 
house,  and  next  Tuesdav  is  fixed  for  the  Sleaford  t'6fe. 
The  young  ladies  at  once  set  to  work  to  prepare  their 
costumes  and  decorate  the  house.  Dan  issues  the  invi- 
tations verbally,  and  all  are  accepted,  including  that 
extended  to  Master  Geoffrey  Lamar.  Frank  goes  with- 
out saying.  With  a  load  off  his  conscience  now  that 
Olga  is  recovering,  Frank  is  in  wild  high  spirits  and 
ready  for  anything.  lie  is  generating  a  great  deal  of 
steam  in  these  days  of  Olga's  convalescence,  and  re- 
quires a  safety-valve  of  some  sort.  He  sj)ends  consid- 
erable of  his  precious  time  in  the  sick-room,  and  it  is 
found  does  Olga  more  good  by  his  lively  presence  than 
all  the  doctor's  stimulants.  Geoffrey  Lamar  and  little 
Leo  Abbott,  too,  are  there  a  great  deal — their  conver* 
4* 


WM 


'    I 


«  Ml 


82 


THE    MISSES    SLEAFORD   AT   HOME. 


satlon  aii(i  (^ouipany  excite  the  cliild  a  littlo,  l)Ul  the 
good  results  eoiiiiteibiilanco  the  evil.  Still,  foiirorii\e 
days  of  this  sort  of  thiii<j^ — this  state  of  iiimatural 
gO(Mliiess — lias  a  (lepressing  effect  on  Frank,  and  the 
fcSleaford  "  swarry  "  is  haile*!  with  rejoieinuf. 

"  We  always  present  some  little  delicate;  offering 
to  the  yoiing  ladies  on  thesc'  occasions,"  he  remarks  to 
GeolTrey,  "  not  l)on(|uets  or  floi-al  litter  of  tliat  soi't  ; 
but  something  sensible  and  solid.  On  various  festive 
seasons  of  this  nature,  I  myself  have  contributed  a 
ham,  a  plum  cake,  a  turkey,  some  port  wine,  and  other 
graceful  irifles  of  that  sort.  'J'he  present  being  a 
special  festival,  it  is  my  intention  to  appear  in  cojn- 
]»any  with  two  imixM-ial  quarts  of  cliamjtagnc.  You, 
young  sir,  being  a  lily  of  tiie  Held,  and  this  your  ilebiity 
>/iIi  be  exempt  from  taxation.  Tlie  honor  of  your 
J  resence  is  sufficient  in  itself." 

"  It  rrali'M"  reminds  one  of  IMrs.  Nickleby  an<l  the 
1 /ve-si!  ickei  old  gentleman  in  small-clothes,  who 
threw  the  vegetable  marrows,"  says  Geoffrey,  laugh- 
ing. "I  wonder,  Frank,  you  care  to  mingle  with  such 
a  lot.     You  really  seem  tr  like  it." 

"  And  I  really  do,  my  aristocratic  young  friend. 
ITimian  nature  in  all  its  varieties  interests  me  in  the 
abstract  ;  liuman  nature,  as  represented  by  Idiss  Lora 
Sleaford,  interests  me  consumedly  in  particular.  A 
romj)  witli  that  girl  is  equal  to  a  boxing-match  any 
day  to  put  a  fellow  in  condition.  Leave  all  your  fas- 
tidious notions  at  Abbott  Wood,  with  your  evening 
dress  ;  put  on  a  shooting-jacket,  and  come  and  be 
happy." 

They  are  the  latest  gucsLs.  The  old  red  farm-house 
is  all  aliglit  wiien  they  draw  near,  the  scraping  of  Jud'a 


THE    MISSES    SLEAFOUD    AT    HOME. 


83 


it. 


violin  is  tlicir  Gfroetiiicj  as  tli»*y  eutor  Some  linlf- 
dozen  young  ladies  in  gay  iiiuslin  drcssos,  gilt  brooclics 
and  chains,  and  rainbow  ribbons  f*vQ  thor!\  and  repre- 
sent the  Sleaford  "set  "  in  liriglitbrook.  Tho  young 
men  a'o  generally  of  a  better  sianij),  and  inust<'r 
stronger  ;  the  lower  rooms  look  filled  to  overflowing 
as  the  two  late  guests  arrive.  A  momentary  hu*h  of 
awe  greets  Geoffrey  Lamar,  but  it  does  not  liw^  ;  th^e 
festive  group  here  assenibleu  are  not  awed  ea^rly  or 
long. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake  do  not  introduee  me  to  any- 
body !"  whispers  r^'offrey,  nervously,  afraifl  of  a 
torrent  of  Frank's  "  ehalF."  "  Just  let  nie  alof>f,  and 
I'll  drift  into  jwrt  myself." 

There  is  one  face  present  tliat  he  recognizes,  t.  it 
of  G(>orge  IJlake,  aini  he  seeks  refuge  by  his  side. 
Blake  is  a  bright  young  fellow,  poor,  but  of  good  con- 
nections ;  his  mother,  a  widow,  teaches  music  in  the 
\illago  ;  George,  an  oidy  son,  is  at  present  beginning 
life  in  the  office  of  the  IJrightbrook  JVaws.  lie  is 
about  eighfeen  or  nineteen — indeed,  none  of  the  gci:- 
tleman  are  on  tlie  aged  side  of  twenty. 

But  Mr.  ]>iake  is  d(>slined  for  hii;he^  dutv  than 
playing  protector — Miss  Liz  S'eaford  sails  up,  resplen- 
dent in  crimson  ribbons  and  cheap  jewelry,  and  claims 
liim  as  her  own.  Tiiey  are  all  in  the  parlor — Ju<l,  the 
musician,  is  ])er{di('d  on  a  sort  of  pedestal  in  a  corner 
to  be  out  of  the  way,  as  there  is  not  an  inch  of  spare 
room  for  the  coming  engagement.  The  dance  is  a 
waltz.  Frank  is  spinning  round  witli  Lora,  as  a  mat- 
ter of  course,  Mr.  Blake  is  blessed  with  Liz,  five  other 
couples  revolve  and  bump  against  each  other  with 
much  force,  and  great  good  humor. 


•^  i§  |! 


84 


THE    MISSES    SLEAFORD    AT    HOME. 


t 


GeofTroy  has  soon  a  {▼roat  many  waltzos,  but  tlio 
energy,  tlio  vim,  the  "  «;o  "  of  this  one  ho  has  ncvct 
seen  0(]iialo(].  And  it  is  a  niij^ht  in  oarly  August, 
The  full  harvest  moon  is  |K»uring  its  [}a\v  splendor 
over  the  warm,  sweet  worhi  without  ;  the  faees  of  the 
Avaltzers  are  reihler  in  ten  minutes  than  the  moon  was 
"when  it  rose.  'I'he  living  whirlwind  Hashing  j)ast  him 
80  confuses  (leolTrey  that  he  gets  u|>  at  last,  and  with 
Home  diflieulty  makes  his  way  into  tn(;  kitehon.  'V\\'\^ 
apartment  has  hut  two  oeeupants — Dan  ISleaford,  and 
a  small,  scantily-dresseil  damsel  of  twelve,  who  ap- 
pears to  be  assistant  cook.  Dan  is  the  c/irf.  At  an 
early  age  he  developed  one  talent,  a  talent  for  clam 
chowder  ;  many  years  of  cultivation,  and  that  talent 
has  soared  to  the  heights  of  positive  genius.  No 
*' swarry  "  at  the  Sleaford's  would  be  considered  per- 
fect witiiout  a  chowder;  it  is  indeed  the  pt'erc  <Je 
rcsisfatK'c  of  the  feast,  and  is  generally  the  only  dish 
contributed  by  the  feast  irivers.  So  Dan,  in  a  state 
threatening  spontaneous  combustion,  bends  over  the 
fiteaming  caldron,  from  which  odors  as  of  Ar.iby  the 
]]lest  are  wafted  out  into  the  silent  night.  The 
youthful  person  with  him,  in  a  sulky  and  slipshod 
manner,  is  emptying  numerous  baskets,  and  arranging 
their  contents  on  the  two  deal  tables,  covered,  at 
present,  with  very  white  cloths,  and  set  otit  with  the 
blue  delf,  two-j>ronged  forks,  and  a  miscellaneous 
collection  of  knives.  It  requires  some  skill  on  Mr. 
Sleaford's  part  to  keep  one  eye  on  the  chowder,  and 
bring  it  to  the  pitch  of  perfection  for  which  he  is  so 
justly  celebrated,  and  keep  the  other  fixed  sternly  on 
his  small  assistant,  to  see  that  she  purloins  none  of  the 
provisions.     On    the   present   occasion   the  sjiread   ia 


•■<•;-  . 


TIIK    MISSES    SLT^AFORD    AT   IIOMK. 


85 


eonipthlrii^  goi  jroous.  Thcro  is,  first  of  .'vll,  tlic  cli.-itn- 
paiilK' — two  silvor-lhioatcd  Ix-rii'Mos  coni  lilmt'd  by 
Frank.  TIk'H  a  baskiit  of  alWc-bodicd  litilo  inuttoti 
jtius,  tijc  (IclKratc  attcnliotiH  of  Mr.  (rcorujo  I  Hake,  who 
lias  a  weakness  that  way.  'IMn-n  a  phini  cake,  with 
sugar  coatinii;  an  inch  thick,  the  hiscious  olTcrinLj  of 
the  vonnij  Urij^hthrook  l>ak<'r.  'i'hcn  a  \o*x  <>f  hiinh 
*'  willi  iixins,"  amjli<-e,  peas  ancl  mint  sauce.  A  boltio 
of  mixed  pickh's,  a  we<lge  of  (theese,  a  can  of  sweet 
biscuits  and  sun<h"ies,  the  tril)Ute  by  the  representa- 
tive of  the  j^rocery.  In  ad<lition,  a  ij;reat  earl  hen  wai'e 
pot  of  tea  is  steepinjL^  for  the  hadies,  whih'  the  whisky 
and  othtr  s})iritu.)us  fluids,  tojjfether  with  a  box  of 
cigars,  adorn  a  shelf  of  the  cupljoard.  These  delica- 
cies, with  the  chowder — always  with  the  chowdei* — ■ 
comprise  a  supper  tit  for  JJrillat  Savarin  or  tho 
Olympian  gods. 

Geoffrev  takes  a  seat  on  the  sill  of  one  of  tlio  open 
wimlows,  trying  to  catch  a  breath  of  cool  air,  and 
amused  in  spite  of  himself  by  the  novelty  of  all  this. 
Dan  Sleal'ord  politely  essays  conversation,  but,  dis- 
tracted between  the  (diowder  and  his  handmaid,  tho 
attempts  are  not  brilliant.  In  spite  of  his  Argus  eyes, 
Joanna  manages  to  filch   a  mutton  pie,  a  handful  of 


eese, 
gar  mo 


nd 


secretes 


this 


nts.       (jreoffre 


mixed  biscuits,  and  a  piece  of  ch 
victual  somewhere  aboiit  her 
watches  the  elfish  child  with  curiosity  ;  she  is  of  a  tyj)0 
he  lias  never  seen  before.  He  has  a  chivalrous  venera- 
tion for  all  things  feminine,  engendered  by  his  beauti- 
ful and  stately  mother;  but  this  changeling — it  isditH- 
cult  to  imagine  her  belonging  to  the  same  order  of 
beings  as  his  sister  Leo,  or  Olga  Ventnor.  This  even- 
ino:  her  best  frock,  such  as  it  is,  has  been  donned  ;  she 


1  -  t 


ill. 

i 

'  ,  i    1 


I.  ' 


f! 


f      ) 


f  I 


i 


I 


86 


THE    MISSES    8LEAF0KD    AT   HOME. 


■,  I" 


i' :  I 
fi.i 


•wears  shoes  and  stockings,  an«l  an  effort  has  Ix'cn  made 
to  brush  down  the  thick  shock  of  darkly-reddish  hair. 
He  sees  tlie  pale,  pinched  features — features  not  home- 
ly in  them:;elvcs,  but  spoiled  by  an  expression  of  set- 
tled sullenness  and  gloom.  She  looks  uncanny,  and 
most  pathetically  nnehildlike.  When  Dan  Sleaford 
girds  at  her,  she  shrinks  as  if  she  ex|)ected  a  blow. 
Her  hard  life  is  written  in  every  line  of  her  downcast 
and  smileless  face. 

Inside,  the  fun  wax'es  fast  and  furious  ;  peals  of 
laughter  ring  out,  the  house  quivers  with  the  tread  of 
the  dancei's.  ,Jud's  iiddle  never  falters  nor  fails.  A 
scholtische  follows  the  waltz,  then  a  quadrille,  then  a 
polka  ;  then  George  l>lake  performs  a  solo,  the  High 
land  Fling — a  dance  whicdi  has  more  Kti'-nine  fling 
about  it,  as  executed  by  Mr.  IJlake,  than  any  of  the 
company  has  ever  before  beheld,  'i'licn  there  is  a  con- 
tre  dance.  Then  l^an  Sleaford,  crimson  of  visage, 
presents  himself  at  the  parlor  door,  and  in  stentorian 
accents  announces  the  chowder  and  accompaniments, 
and  tersely  commands  them  to  "come  on  !" 

"  What,  Geoff,  ohl  boy  !  taking  lessons  in  cook- 
ing ?"  cries  P^-aid<,  wiping  his  hot  face.  "  Phew  !  what 
a  bla/er  of  a  night  ! — and,  by  Jove  !  what  a  girl  L(»ra 
Sleaford  is  to  spin  !  There's  more  go  in  her  than  in  any 
human  being  I  ever  met.  She  has  been  dancing  every 
time,  and  hasn't  turned  a  hair,  while  I — I  give  you  my 
word,  old  fellow,  I'm  fit  to  drop." 

But  a  bumper  of  foamy  iced  lager  restores  the  ex- 
hausted one,  and  the  company  sit  down  to  supi)er.  A 
very  noisy  company  it  is,  a  very  hungry  company  too, 
and  despite  the  height  of  the  thermometer,  boiling 
chowder,   steaming  tea,  roast   lamb,  and   mutton  pies 


THE    MISSES   SLEAFOUD  AT   HOME. 


87 


disappear  with  a  colority  tliat  speaks  well  for  the  faiili 
the  consumers  liave  in  their  own  powerful  (liijjcstions. 
Every  one  helps  himself  and  his  partner  to  whatever 
chances  to  be  haiidicst  ;  cheese  and  pickles  vanish  in 
company,  lamb  and  jiound-cake,  mutton  pies  and  peas. 
The  gentlemen  slake  their  thirst  with  ilagons  of  Inner 
beer,  or  the  more  potent  whisky  ;  while  the  latlies 
genteelly  })artake  of  hot  tea  an<l  iced  champagne,  one 
after  the  other,  and  with  perfe(,'t  equanimity. 

It  is  all  a  wonderful  experience  to  Geoffrey  Lamar. 
For  P'rank — he  and  George  IJlake — thev  are  the  choice 
pj)irits  of  the  board,  lie  is  amused,  a  trifle  disgusted 
also,  it  may  be,  but  the  hilarity  carries  him  away,  an<l 
he  finds  himself  laughing  almost  as  noisily  as  the  rest. 
Once  or  twice  he  glances  about  for  the  att(Midant 
sprite,  but  she  is  no  longer  in  waiting  ;  every  one 
lielps  himself.  She  is  in  a  corner  of  the  fii'e-place,  as 
though  she  felt  the  heat  vo  more  than  a  salamander, 
munching  her  pilfered  dainties,  and  staring,  with 
bright,  watchful  eyes,  at  the  peop!'^  before^  her.  No 
one  notices  lier,  or  thitdvs  of  offering  her  anything  to 
<*at  or  drink.  The  dogs  get  an  occasional  morsel 
thrown  them — she  gets  nothing. 

Supper  over,  dancing  is  resumed  with  ardor  and 
vigor.  There  is  singing,  too,  spirited  songs  with  ring- 
ins:  choruses,  in  which  the  strength  and  lungs  of  the 
"  swarry  "  is  thrown.  IMiss  Lora  gives  them — to  a 
banjo  accompaniment — "  Sing,  oh  !  for  a  brave  and 
gallant  bark,  a  brisk  and  lively  breeze," — v,-hlch,  hav- 
inir  a  fine  resounding  chorus,  goes  near  to  lift  the  roof 
off.  Liz  does  the  sentimental,  and  warbles  "Thou 
hast  learned  to  love  another,  thou  hast  broken  every 
vow."     Frank  Livingston  trolls   forth,  in  a  very  nice 


i 


!i4 


i; 


i 

!' 

i    i 


4   \  I 


iSSes?»*i?; 


nr 


88 


THE    MISSES    SLEAFORD    AT   HOME. 


I    1 


I 


tenor,  *'  Sarnli's  Yonnc^  Man,"  and  tlie  ^Mossienrs  Slo.i* 
ford  uplift  tlicir  voices  in  a  nautical  duct.  The  re- 
»naiu8  of  the  plum  cake,  and  some  cool  lemonade  are 
passed  around  amotii^  the  fair  sex.  The  gentlemen 
adjourn  at  intervals  to  the  kitchen  cupboard  for  a 
**  modest  quencher,"  a  quiet  cigar,  and  Geoffrey  Lamar, 
growing  rather  bored,  keeps  his  seat  on  the  window- 
sill,  and  wishes  it  were  time  to  get  out  of  all  this  noise 
and  heat,  and  go. 

IJis  interest  in  Joanna  does  not  flag.  She  is  a 
curious  study,  and  he  watches  her.  After  supper  she 
clears  off  the  things,  washes  the  dishes,  ])Uts  them 
away,  sweeps  up  the  lloor,  all  in  profound  silence,  and 
with  deft,  swift  hands.  Then,  instead  of  going  to  bed, 
although  it  is  ])ast  midnight,  slie  produces  a  tattered 
hook,  and  resumes  ber  corner  to  read.  With  hands 
over  her  ears,  eyes  riveted  to  the  page,  she  is  seeming- 
ly lost  to  all  the  tumult  around  her.  He  watches  her 
in  silence  for  awhile,  then  he  speaks. 

"  What  are  you  reading  ?" 

He  has  to  touch  lier  to  make  her  hear — then  she 
looks  up.  How  changed  her  look  !  the  sullen  moodi- 
ness has  pass^'d  away,  her  eyes  are  eager,  her  face 
bright  with  the  interest  of  her  book.  But  in  that  in- 
stant the  old  look  of  dark,  frowning  distrust  returns. 
She  points  to  the  page  without  a  word. 

"  '  Monte  Oristo,'  "  he  reads.     "  Do  you  like  it?  " 

She  nods. 

"  But  the  first  and  last  seems  to  be  torn  out — that 
must  spoil  the  interest,  I  should  think.  Do  you  read 
mucli  ?" 

She  purses  up  her  mouth  and  shakes  her  head. 

"  Why  ?" 


THE    MISSES   SLEAFORD   AT  HOME. 


89 


"No  books — no  time." 

"Yon  are  I'oiitl  of  stories?" 

"Oh  !  ain't  I  !— j'>^t,  !"' 

"  WonUl  you  like  me  to  bring  you  a  book  the  next 
time  I  come  ?" 

Siie  looks  at  him,  wondering,  flistrustful.  Tie  is  a 
young  gentleman,  and  he  is  taking  notice  of  her — he 
is  speaking  to  her  kindly.  No  one  does  that.  He  is 
offering  her  a  book — no  one  ever  gives  her  anything. 
Her  sullen  look  comes  back  ;  she  does  not  know  what 
to  make  of  it. 

"I  will  bring  you  some  books,"  he  says,  "and  I 
will  ask  your  sisters  to  let  you  read  tliem.  Books  that 
will  suit  you  better  tlian  'Monte  Cristo.'  " 

"Sisters!"  she   repeats,     "/ain't  got  no  sisters. 

But  if  you  ain't  foolin' "  distrustfully.     "You  are 

foolin',  ain't  you,  mister?" 

He  assures  her  of  his  sincerity. 

"  Well,  then,  don't  you  go  and  bring  no  books 
here.  'Cause  I  wouldn't  be  let  to  have  'em  ;  old  Giles 
would  burn  'em  up.  But  I  know  what  you  could 
do "  with  a  cunning  look. 

"Well— what?" 

"  Do  you  k?iow  Black's  Dam,  and  the  old  mill  down 
there  in  the  woods  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  know  them." 

"Then — if  you  ain't  foolin' — fetch  'em  there,  and 
leave  'em  in  the  mill.  I'^ll  find  them  ;  no  one  else  ever 
goes  there.     But  I  know  you  won't." 

"  You  will  see.  You  will  lind  one  there  to-morrow 
night.     What's  your  name?" 

"Sleaford's  Joanna,"  she  says,  with  a  shrill  laugh, 
"  or  Wild  Joanna — 'taiu't  no  odds  which.     Vm  both.'* 


i 


H 


I 


til 


I 


h  ? 


tft 


GKOFFUKY    LAMAR. 


'  What  is  vonr  olluT  naiiic?" 

*' Got  no  oilier  name,  (iot  no  fatl)or,  no  mother, 
no  fririids,  no  iiothin'.     Vm  only  Sh-aford'H  Joanna." 

kSlio  ^008  ba(;k  to  hor  book,  and  when,  hours  al'lor, 
tlu'  S(»/i'ee  breaks  Uj»,  she  is  bending  over  Diinias'  ex- 
travaganza still.  Geotfrev  bids  her  jjrood-niiiht — the 
only  one  of  the  party  who  has  addressed  her  the  whole 
evenini^. 

And  that  brief  eonvorsation  is  the  mnstard-seed, 
60  sniall  as  to  be  hardly  visible,  from  whieh  all  the 
dark  reeord  of  the  future  is  to  <>row.  Tliere  are 
many  memorable  nights  in  Geollrey  Lamar's  life, 
but  none  that  stands  out  more  ominously  vivid  tliau 
this. 


*♦♦ 


CHAPTER  X. 

GEOFFREY    LAMAR. 

:^^EOFFREY  LA:MAR  goes  to  no  more  Slea- 
ford  iS'o//'tv'.s',  he  has  no  taste  for  that  sort 
of  revelry,  but  he  does  not  forget  the  odd, 
elfish   child  who  wastes  midnight  oil  ovei 
the  adventures  of  Dumas'  wonderful  hero. 

lie  goes  next  day  to  Blaek's  Dam,  with  a  volume 
under  his  arnj,  and  i)laces  it  on  a  rude  seat  he  finds  in 
the  ruined  mill.  It  is  a  dull,  sunless  day,  and  tiie  evil 
look  of  the  place  depresses  him.  What  a  strange, 
hideous  retreat  this  child  chooses  ;  it  is  like  herself, 
eery  and  frowning.  The  dark,  stagnant  pond  lies 
under  the  gray  sky,  green  and  poisonous,  the  dull 
croak  of  a  frog  making  itself  heard  now  and  then.     It 


GEOI-rRKY    LAMAU. 


91 


looks  Mack  and  had  ;  so,  too,  docs  tho  di'sortod  mill, 
fallint;  dry  and  tindery  to  decay.  Heavy  woods  and 
rank  undcrijrowtli  shut  it  in  on  every  hand.  'I'here  is 
no  |»ath,  h»n!jf  ago  it  was  overgrown  and  forsaken,  only 
ft  sK'nder  lim;  worn  by  the  hare  f(M't  of  the  dosohito 
cliihl.  A  great  pity  for  the  forlorn,  ill-treated  liltio 
creature  fills  him. 


Poor  little  wretch  !"  he  thinks 


(( 


all  work  and  no 


play,  ignorance,  brutality,  starvation — it  is  hard  lines 


ler 


?> 


fori 

He  loaves  the  book  and  returns  to  the  village.  Ho 
and  Leo  are  duo  at  tlu*  villa  to-day  ;  they  are  to  dino 
with  convalescent  Olga.  It  is  the  first  time  she  has 
left  her  chamber,  and,  robed  in  the  daintiest  of  all  iier 
dainty  white  robes,  she  is  carried  down  by  papa  to 
where  the  table  is  set  under  the  trees,  and  where  slio 
is  received  witli  acclamations  by  Frank,  and  GeoiTrev, 
and  Leo.  All  the  l(»ng  ringlets  are  gone,  she  looks 
palliil  and  thin,  but  very,  very  j)retty.  IShe  is  the  lit- 
tle <|ueen  of  the  feast,  slu!  is  petted  and  spoiled  to  her 
heart's  content.  Antl  Olga  likes  to  bo  potted,  and 
ceases  to  regret  the  loss  of  her  lovely  long  hair,  and 
decides  there  are  worse  things  in  the  world  than  brain 
fever,  after  all. 

Late  that  evening,  after  a  hard  day's  work — for  it 
is  wash-day  at  the  farm-house,  and  she  has  had  to 
carry  water  from  early  morning — Sleaford's  Joanna 
steals  out  by  the  back  way,  and  darts  off  to  her  casile 
in  the  wood. 

Some  faint  hope  that  the  young  gentleman  who 
Bpoke  to  her  last  night  may  keep  his  word  stirs  within 
her,  but  it  is  very  faint.  Joanna  is  not  used  to  people 
who  keep  their  word,  and  why  should  he  ever  think  of 


.'  I. 


Pi 


I'fc 


Ill 

j      I 


it 


I 

■Hi' 

l4JII 


92 


GEOFFRKY    LAMAR. 


rn 


\ 


EJf-i; 


li 


l>or  nq^.vn  ?     It  surprises  lior  when  she  rcmembi'i-s  he 
noticed  her  at  all. 

Frank  Livi'';stoii  has  lieen  comini;  to  the  house 
for  months,  an<l  has  never  spoken  to  her  a  single  word. 
8he  lias  provided  jjerseif  with  a  eandie  in  a  hottle,  aii<l 
some  !nat(!hes,  in  case  the  ]>oo)t  shonltl  prctve  to  he 
there.  And  if  it  does  not  rain,  as  it  looks  very  nuieli 
like  doinix,  she  will  stay  at  the  null  all  niiiht. 

The  gray  lii,dit  of  I  he  overcast  day  is  dying  out 
when  she  reaches  her  gruesome  retreat.  J>ut  it  is  not 
ugly  or  forV)idding  to  Joanna  ;  the  (piietest,  the  hap- 
piest, the  most  peaceful  hours  of  her  life  are  spent 
here.  Tlu;  frogs  that  croak  in  the  green,  slimy  waters, 
croak  at  her  with  the  voices  of  friend>  ;  their  ugly  f.'ices 
iij)lifted  fro'n  the  ooze  are  the  friendliest  faces  she 
knows.  She  has  read  "  Rohinson  Crusot'"  of  late,  and 
wild  visions  of  flying  from  Sleaford's  farmstead,  and 
taking  up  her  perujanent  abode  here,  ris(^  before  her 
ecstatically.  'I'o  live  liere  all  by  herself,  never  to  work, 
never  to  be  scolded  or  beaten,  that  would  be  bliss.  J]ut 
it  is  not  practicable,  the  Sleafords  would  never  let  her 
go  like  that> — who  would  fetch  water,  and  carry  wood, 
and  wash  dislies,  and  scrub  floors,  and  make  beds,  and 
see  to  thfl  dinner,  and  run  errands,  if  she  left?  And 
grapes  do  iiot  grow  in  Brightbrook  woods,  nor  wild 
goats  run  about,  waiting  to  be  caught  and  eaten,  as  in 
C'l  usoe's  lovely  isle. 

Still,  slie  has  done  the  best  she  can  ;  she  has  brought 
an  armful  of  clean  straw,  a  ])illow  and  a  quilt  or  two, 
a  supply  of  candles  and  matches,  and  spends  many  a 
tranquil  summer  night  here,  watching  the  stars  shining 
down  on  her,  through  the  broken  roof.     These  nights 


OKOKFllEY     LAMAK. 


arc  tho  nearest  approach  to  h.ii^pinoss  Sleaford's  Joanna 
knows. 

She  roaches  tlio  mill,  cnt(»rs,  anrl  fin-ls  a  book  in  rcil 
and  gill  binding  lying  on  tho  bench.  Ilcr  heart  gives 
a  bound — she  has  a  passion  for  reading  ;  such  a  volunio 
as  t/iis  she  has  never  bid'ort?  Ixdield.  She  wipes  her 
gi';ny  lingers  on  her  frock,  and  tiikes  it  gingt'ily  up. 
There  is  still  light  enough  to  read  the  titU',  the  "Old 
Ciiriosii  •  Shop.  '  It  is  full  of  pictures,  she  gloats  over 
them,  the  8enlencc>.  look  short,  the  print  is  large  aiid 
clear. 

Tiiere  seems  to  be  plenty  of  conversation  ;  as  Joanna 
expresses  it,  "it  looks  open-worky."  She  hugs  tho 
book  to  her  breast,  her  eyes  shine  with  delight.  Oh, 
how  good  of  him — that  nice,  pleasant-spoken  young 
gentleman,  to  remember  her — Acrf  whom  n(d)ody  ever 
remembers  ;  to  come  all  this  way  and  leave  this  beauti- 
ful book. 

A  great  throb  of  gratitude  fills  her,  all  good  is  not 
crushed  out  of  the  child  ;  then  a  pang  swift  and  ^harp 
follows.  If  he  knew  how  bad  she  is,  how  she  has 
nearly  killed  poor  little  ]Miss  Ventnor,  would  he  have 
been  so  kind  ?  No,  she  feels  sure  not  ;  he  would 
shrink  from  her  as  from  a  toad.  She  is  a  toad,  a 
venomous  toad,  Li  says  so — an  imp,  Jud  calls  her — a 
little  ^ndl  is  Dan's  j..t  name  for  her — lazy  little  hussy, 
Lora  says,  and  Old  Giles'  names  mostly  are  too  bad  to 
repeat.  No,  if  he  knew  what  she  was  like,  he  never 
would  fetch  her  any  books. 

It  is  dark  now  ;  she  lights  her  candle  and  begins 
to  read.  She  is  not  afraid  of  being  interrupted,  no 
one  ever  comes  to  l^lack's  Dam.  More  than  one 
wretched  suicide  has  sought  its  villainous  waters,  and 


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GEOFFUEy    LAMAR. 


I  if 


it  is  of  evil  savor  in  the  nostrils  of  llriglitbrook.  If  13 
a  weird  pictiiro,  tlie  dark,  stagnant  pond,  the  dark 
woods,  tho  dark  niglit  sky,  the  deep  and  niysforious 
stillness,  that  giiminering  light  among  the  mined  tim- 
bers of  the  old  mill,  and  the  strange  little  eioatni'O 
crouched  in  a  heap,  devouring,  with  greedy  eyes,  iho 
story  of  Little  Nell. 

Presently  the  sighing  wind  rises,  falls,  stirs  the 
trees,  wails  lugubriously  through  the  ])ines,  and  then 
great  drops  begin  to  fall  and  plash  heavily  on  tho 
roof.  She  neither  hears  nor  lieeds  ;  she  is  far  away 
amid  the  Kentish  meadows  with  Little  Nell,  held 
breathless  and  enchained  by  the  pathos  of  the  tale. 

She  has  never  I'ead  anything  like  this  ;  she  h'ugha 
with  Dick  Swiveller,  she  identities  herself  with  tho 
marchioness,  she  is  lost  in  wonder  at  the  goodness  and 
wisdom  of  Nelly.  It  is  very  late,  and  she  has  read 
quite  half  the  book,  when  a  large  drop  falls  directly 
on  the  glittering  candle,  and  it  si)l utters  and  goes  out. 
It  is  burned  nearly  to  the  end  anyhow,  it  is  useless 
relighting  the  fragment.  She  closes  her  book  with  a 
profound  sigh,  and  for  the  first  time  becomes  conscious 
that  it  is  raining  hard  and  that  a  gale  is  surging 
through  the  woods. 

Well,  it  does  not  matter  ;  her  truss  of  straw,  an*' 
quilts,  are  in  a  dry  corner,  but  she  would  as  soon  go 
Lome  in  the  rain  as  not.  But  before  going  anywhere, 
she  sits  for  nearly  half  an  hour,  her  knees  clasped  in 
her  arms,  lier  black  melancholy  eyes  staring  out  at  the 
wet  wildness  of  the  lonesome  niijht. 

That  story  of  Little  Nell  troubles  and  disturbs  lier. 
How  different  from  Nell  is  she — how  wicked,  how 
miserable  !     But  then  no  one  has  ever  loved  her,  oi 


GEOFFIIEY     LAMAR. 


95 


cared  for  her,  or  taui^ht  her.  No  nice  old  "j^ratidfathor 
has  over  dotol  on  hur  ;  no  funny  Kit  Niibl)les  has  been 
Ac?'  friend  ;  no  Mrs.  Jarley  has  protected  and  been 
kind  to  hfi'. 

She  wonih'rs  wliat  it  is  like  to  be  ha|)py,  to  have 
father,  mother,  friends  ;  a  liome  without  ciirsinGf,  or 
drinking,  or  \vliip|)ing  I  'nco  dresses,  and  ])lenty  of 
books  to  read.  It  would  be  easy  enougli  to  be  good 
then,  but  she — a  strange,  mournful  wonder  fills  her 
as  she  looks  back  over  the  brief  years  she  can  remem- 
ber. 

She  is  bad,  no  doubt  ;  she  is  very  ba(T — but  what 
has  she  done  to  have  such  a  liard,  hard  life?  She  is 
only  a  poor  little  thing,  after  all  ;  only  twelve  years 
old.  Was  she  born  wicked,  she  wonders,  and  different 
from  other  children  ?  In  a  blind,  pathetic  sort  of  way 
she  tries  to  solve  the  riddle,  but  It  baffles  her.  She 
gropes  in  utter  darkness  of  heart  and  soul.  It  would 
be  pleasant  to  be  good,  she  thinks,  but  it  cannot  be  ; 
no  one  could  be  good  at  Sleaford's.  And  if  she  was 
born  a  little  imp,  as  they  tell  her,  it  is  of  no  use  try- 
ing. She  can  no  moi'e  be  like  Little  Nell  than  she  c.-m 
be  like  Miss  Oiga  Ventnor,  or  Miss  Leo  Abbott,  with 
their  floating,  ])erfumed  hair  and  silk  dresses,  and  fair 
faces,  and  pretty,  glittering  trinkets.  No,  and  she 
will  not  try  ;  and  so,  witii  another  great  hopeless  sigh, 
Sleaford's  Joanna  gives  up  the  puzzle  and  goes  to 
bed. 

Three  days  after  this  it  occurs  to  Geoffi'ey  Lamar 
to  take  a  second  look  at  the  odd  child  at  Sleaford's. 
So  he  mounts  his  horse,  and  rides  slowly  into  the 
woodland  path  that  leads  to  the  Red  Farm.  It  is  a 
mystery  to  him,  as  it  has  been  to  others,  why  Mr.  Ab- 


^  1  ill 


hill 


\m 


■\  ' 


«  I' 


96 


GEOFI'UKY    LAMAR. 


i 


bott  lots  tills  shiftless  lot  run  riot  in  the  best  f.irm  be 
owns,  but  it  is  a  mvstory  bo  cannot  fathom,  unless 
"Frank  Livingston's  unpleasant  bints  have  some  foun- 
dation. 

In  liis  secret  heart  be  neither  likes  nor  respects  bis 
step-father  ;  lie  distrusts  him,  he  shares  his  mother's 
nns|)oken  slirinkingand  aversion.  All  the  man's  tastes, 
and  instincts,  and  ways  are  low.  GoofTrey  is  a  gentle- 
man, lad  as  ho  is,  and  the  son  of  a  gentleman  ;  his 
feelings  are  by  nature  refined  ;  he  hates  coarseness, 
vulgarity,  pride  of  wealth  ;  his  intellect  is  beyond  his 
years,  and  his  reason  tells  him  Frank's  hints  are  more 
than  likely  to  bo  true.  Mr.  Abbott  is  good  to  him,  is 
proud  of  him,  is  fond  of  him,  is  lavishly  generous  to 
bim,  and  the  bo}'  fights  with  his  feelings  and  keeps 
them  down.  lie  ought  to  be  grateful,  and  he  is,  but 
despite  all  that  Mr.  Abbott  can  come  not  one  whit 
nearer  to  the  son  tlum  to  the  mother. 

As  he  rides  along,  a  sudden  joyous  caroling  over- 
bead  makes  him  pause  and  look  uj).  Twit,  twit,  twit — 
twoe-e-e-e  !  A  whole  shower  of  silvery  notes,  but  the 
bird  is  nowhere  to  be  seen.  Then  the  warble  changes  ; 
a  blackbird  whistles,  a  bobolink  calls,  it  is  the  chat- 
ter of  a  squirrel,  the  to-whit-to-whoo  of  an  owl,  the 
harsh  croak  of  a  frog,  the  shrill  chirp  of  a  cricket, 
then  rapidly  the  clear,  shrill  song  of  a  lark. 

Geoffrey  sits  dumbfounded.  Has  a  mocking-bird 
been  let  loose  in  Brightbrook  woods  ?  Suddenly  a  wild 
peal  of  laughter  greets  him,  there  is  a  rustle  of  boughs, 
and  from  a  tree  under  which  he  stands,  a  thin,  elfish 
face  looks  down. 

"It's  only  rao,  mister,  mocking  the  birds.  I  often 
do  it.     I  can  whistle,  too.     Listen  !"     The  sweetest, 


GEOFFREY    LAMAR. 


97 


slirilk'st  whistle  lie  lias  ever  hoard  takes  up  the  air 
'Sweet  Home,"  and  performs  it  as  he  could  not  do  to 
gave  Ids  life.  "  There  !"  savs  the  voiee.  "  I'll  ti'wm  for 
you  now,  if  you  like.  Didij't  know  I  could  sincf,  did 
you  ?  All  the  Sleafords  sinjjr,  law  bless  you  I  but  I 
only  do  when  I  feel  like  it.  Did  you  ever  hear  '  Lani- 
gan'sBallV'" 

A  sweet,  strong  voice  begins  that  classical  ditty, 
and  the  woods  give  back  the  nielodiou.s  echo.  Geof- 
frey Lamar  listens  in  silent  amaze,  ^^'hy,  the  elf  is  a 
prodigy  ! — a  musical  prodigy  !  Where,  in  that  small, 
starved  body  has  she  room  for  a  voice  like  that  ? 

She  finishes  at  last,  and  whistles  a  bar  or  two  of 
the  air  by  way  of  closing  symjjhony. 

"  That  was  an  awful  nice  book  von  lent  me,"  she 
goes  on.  "  I've  read  it  through  twice.  I  liaven't 
soiled  it  a  mite,  and  it's  down  at  the  mill.  I — I'm 
lots  obliged  to  you,  you  know.  Didn't  think  j'ou'd 
ever  fetch  it."  > 

She  descends  a  b/.'aivh  or  two  from  her  lofty  roost, 
and  brings  hers-^'lf  to  a  level  v.iti'  the  rider. 

"  It  /.s'Sleaford's  Joanna  !"  says  Geoffrey,  his  breath 
nearly  taken  away.  "  AVhy,  you  must  be  a  witch.  Who 
taught  you  to  siiig  and  whistle,  a!id  twitter  like  a  bird, 
in  this  fashion?" 

"Nobody  taught  me — taught  myself.  It's  jest  as 
easy  as  notliin'  at  all." 

"  Can  you  sing  anything  but  '  Lanigan's  Ball  ?'  " 

Joanna  nods. 

"  Know  a  hymn.  Lora  heard  your  mar  sing  it  at 
her  meetin'.     Goes  like  this." 

Tlie  silvery  childish  treble  uplifts  and  peals  out 
with  a  force  that  fairly  amazes  him.     The  hymn,  from 


f\f 


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If 


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'  i  ' 


If 


III 


K!i  I 


98 


GEOFFREY    LAMAR. 


those  lips,  amazes  him  still   more.     It  is  "Rock    of 

Ages." 

"  Rork  of  Af?os,  cleft  for  me, 
Let  mc  hide  myself  in  Thee  I" 

*         IIow  straiigi'ly  from  those   ini})ish  lips  sound  the 
grand,  strong  words  ! 

"Nothing'  in  mv  luind  I  brinaf, 
Simply  to  Thy  cross  1  C'liig; 
TsaUed,  come  to  Tliee  lor  dress, 
lleli)less,  look  to  Thee  for  grace; 
Rock  of  A<ies,  cleft  foi-  me. 
Let  me  hide  myself  in  Thee  1" 

"  Upon  my  word,  you  are  a  marvel  !"  GeoflFrey  says, 
catching  his  bated  breath.  "And  so  you  like  the 
book?     Would  you  like  another?" 

"  Oh  !"  ejaculated  Joanna,  rapturously  ;  "  wouldn't 
I  just  !" 

"Well,  you  shall.  I  will  leave  it  this  evening  at 
the  mill.  Who  taught  you  to  read?  Have  you  ever 
been  at  school  ?" 

"School!"  Joanna  echoes,  scornfully;  "I  guess 
not.  Catch  Old  Giles  sending  me  to  school.  Not  but 
that  I'd  like  to  go,  mind  you.  No,  Jud  teaclies  me. 
He  ain't  so  bad,  Jud  ain't — don't  curse  nor  hit  me 
like  the  rest.  Teached  me  some  writin',  too,  but  not 
much." 

"And  you  would  like  to  learn  more  ?" 

"  You  bet  !  But  'tain't  no  use.  Old  Giles  would 
beat  me  to  death  if  I  spoke  of  such  a  thing." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  sav  he  really  beats  and  swears  at 


say 


you 


9" 


Joanna  laughs  shrilly. 

"  Oh,  no,  not  at  all !     He  wouldn't  hurt  nobody  1 
Look  here,  mister  !" 


GEOFFREY   LAMAR. 


99 


She  uncovers  her  slioulders  b)''  a  dexloroiis  hitcli, 
and  shows  him  long  black  and  blue  wolt.s  purpling  iho 
flesh. 

"Did  that  last  night  ;  was  drunk,  you  know.  Beat 
me  till  I  couldn't  stir." 

"  What  had  you  done  ?"  Geoffrey  asks,  sick  at 
lieart. 

"Nothin'  'tall.  Didn't  fetch  the  boot-jack  quiek 
enough.  Got  me  into  a  corner  where  I  couldn't  wri<j:- 
gle  away,  and  lashed  me  till  Jud  took  the  whip  out  of 
his  hand.  Says  he'll  beat  my  soul  out  next  time.  May 
if  he  likes.     Z don't  care." 

She  begins  to  whistle  defiantly,  but  tears  of  pain 
and  wrath  well  up  in  spite  of  her,  and  she  winks  them 
angrily  away. 

"Poor  little  soul  !"  the  lad  says,  strongly  touched. 
And  at  the  pitying  words  all  her  bravado  breaks 
down,  and  she  suddeidy  covers  her  face,  and  sobs 
wildly  : 

"  I  wis^  I  was  dead — I  do  !  I  wish  I  was  dead  and 
buried  !" 

"Hush,"  he  says,  distressed,  "that  is  wicked. 
Don't  cry  ;  I  am  going  to  try  and  do  something  for 
you.  I  am  going  to  help  you  if  I  can.  I  am  sure 
you  would  be  a  good  girl  if  you  had  a  chance.  It  is 
a  shame — a  shame  !    They  use  you  worse  than  a  dog  !" 

"  Oh,  dear  !  oh,  dear  !  oh,  dear  !"  the  poor  little 
wretch  sobs.  It  is  the  first  time  in  her  life  the  flood- 
gates have  thus  been  opened.  She  cries  wildly  now, 
as  she  does  all  things,  as  if  her  very  heart  were  burst- 
ing. It  is  the  first  time  any  one  has  ever  been  sorry 
for  her,  and  the  sympathy  goes  near  to  break  her 
heart. 


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. 

i    ■ 

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100      IN  WHICH  Mil.  AIIP.OTT  ASSEliTS  HIMSI'LF. 

"  Do  not  cry,"  lio  s;iys.  "  Look  licr*',  Joanna,  1 
will  li-avt'  tilt;  hook  for  you  to-ni;j^li1,  and  I  will  (;omo 
to  SCO  yon  ajj:ain  in — k't  nio  sec — two  days.  Nt)W, 
good  by,  and  do  not  got  wliippod,  if  you  can,  till  I 
conic  I)a;'I<." 

A\'illi  Mliicli  tlio  youthful  kni;jfht-orrant  of  tattered 
dainsoh-s  in  distress  turns  his  horse's  lioad,  and  rides 
slowly  and  thou'ditfullv  lioniowanl,  revolvinix  in  his 
mind  a  decidedly  bold  project,  which,  if  oan'iod  into 
effect,  bids  fairs  to  alter  the  whole  future  life  of  Slea- 
ford's  Joanna. 


-♦♦»■ 


CHAPTER  XT. 


IN  WlllCn  ]\IR.   AI5B0TT  ASSERTS  HIMSELF. 


HE  lii^ht  of  the  Aui»ust  sunset  lies  low  over 
Abbott  \Vood,  as  young  GeoU'rey  Lamar 
rides  slowly  up  the  shaded  avenue,  still 
lost  in  thought.  And  yet  not  so  deeply 
absorbed  but  that  the  glowing  beauty  of  green  glade, 
and  sunny  slope,  scented  rose-thicket,  waving  depths  of 
fern  and  bracken,  ruby  lines  of  light  slanting  through 
brown  boles  of  trees,  strike  him  with  a  keen  sense  of 
delight.  It  is  Aw,  all  this  fair  domain,  this  noble  in- 
heritance ;  no  birthright,  but  the  generous  gift  prom- 
ised liim  often  by  the  master  of  Abbott  Wood.  And 
that  sense  of  proprietorship  accents  vividly  his  pleas- 
ure in  its  green  loveliness,  as  he  rides  up  under  those 
tall,  arching  elms.  lie  is  not  an  embryo  artist,  as  is 
Frank  Livingo'on.  lie  does  not  rant  of  liglit  and 
shade,  of  breadth  and  perspective,  of  tone  and  color, 


IN  WlllCn  r.IR.   AIJUOTT  ASSKIITS  liniSELF.       101 

and  back'Tfromids  .iiid  cliicMi-osciiro,  or  tlio  rcsl,  of  tlio 
ar(-j;irL(oii  in  wliich  liis  fl!i;hty  friend  i-xccls,  Imt,  ho 
loves  every  tree,  and  stone,  ;md  copjiiee,  and  flower, 
and  bird  about  llui  place,  and  means,  pK-ase  Heaven, 
it  shall  be  his  home,  Vv-ander  whitlier  he  may,  through 
life. 

Mv.  Abbott  is  in  Iho  stables,  smokinijjand  leetniinj^ 
the  grooms,  when  (leofTrey  resigns  his  horse  to  iho 
boy  who  caters  to  liim.  He  nods  afTectionatelv  to  his 
stej)-son.  It  has  been  said  ho  is  fond  and  proud  of 
him — ])roud,  after  an  absnrd  fashion,  that  the  lad  is  a 
gentleman  by  birth  a  .d  breeding,  while  resenting  at 
the  same  time  the  grave  reserve  tlie  youth  maintains 
between  them.  ]»ut  Geof^'rey  is  in  a  grateful  and  gen- 
tle mood  at  this  moment  ;  moreover,  he  is  in  the  char- 
acter of  a  snj)pliant,  and  returns  his  step-fatlier'a 
greeting  with  cordiality. 

"  I've  been  deucedly  put  out  just  now,  GeofT,  my 
boy,"  Mr.  Abbott  says,  quitting  the  stables  with  him  ; 
"  not  so  much  with  these  fellows,  though  they  ewe  a 
set  of  lazy  dogs,  who  shirk  work  whenever  they  can. 
But  I  was  down  at  Cooper's  this  afternoon,  and  llio 
way  that  place  is  going  to  wreck  and  ruin  under  that 
shif'less  lot  is  enough  to  turn  a  man's  hair  gray.  I 
gave  old  Job  a  bit  of  my  mind,  let  me  tell  you,  and 
out  they  go  next  quarter-day,  b}*^  the  Lord  Harry  ! 
Mind  you,  GeolT,  when  you're  master  here,  keep  no 
tenants  on  your  land  like  the  Coopers.  Out  with  'em 
neck  and  crop  !" 

"Cooper  is  not  a  model  farmer,"  says  GeoiTrey, 
coolly,  "but  in  comparison  with  another  of  your  ten- 
ants, his  place  is  a  paradise.  I  mean  Sleaford's — llio 
Red  Farm." 


1 

.  i      I 


■!' 


■i"., ' 


;.i 


'.!  I- 


102    IN  wiricri  mk.  abbott  asserts  himself. 


I 


E    ^i 


i 


A  tliirk  frown  bonds  Mr.  Abbott's  brows.  IIo  tukoa 
out  iiis  cigar  and  looks  at.  tbe  boy. 

"  Sli'aford's  !"  ho  growls.  "  What  do  i/ou  know  of 
Sloaford's?     What  takos  you  thero?" 

"  Frank  Jjivingston  took  nio  the  othor  ovcning. 
They  had  a  danoo  of  sotno  sort.  But  I  havo  passed 
tlu!  place  often,  and  can  sco.  Besides,  every  one  is 
talking  of  it,  and  wondering  you  do  not  send  them 
adrift." 

"  Every  one  bo — every  one  had  better  mind  his  own 
business  !  Yoti  too,"  JMr.  Abbott  would  like  to  add, 
but  he  knows  the  state  of  haughty  surprise  Geoffrey's 
face  can  assume  when  it  likes,  and  does  not  care  to 
provoke  it.  "I  don't  explain  to  all  lirightbrook — hang 
'em — my  reasons,  but  I  don't  mind  to  you.  Black 
Giles  Sleaford  was  a — well,  acquaintance  of  mine  out 
in  San  Francisco,  some  fourteen  years  ago,  and  ho  did 
me — well,  a  sort  of  service,  in  those  days.  He's  a 
worthless  devil,  I  allow,  but  what's  a  man  to  do? 
Turn  his  back  on  an  old  fri — acquaintance  ;  and  leavo 
him  to  starve,  when  he's  rolling  in  riches  himself  ?  It's 
the  way  of  the  world,  I  know  ;  but,  by  Jupiter,  it  ain't 
John  Abbott's  way.  So  he's  at  the  Red  Farm,  and 
there  I  moan  to  let  him  stay.  It  ain't  the  same  case 
as  the  Coopers,  at  all.  But  look  here,  Geoffrey,  boy, 
don't  you  go  there.  I  don't  like  it.  I  don't  ask  many 
favors  ;  just  grant  me  this  one.  They're  low,  dear 
boy,  and  it  ain't  no  place  for  a  young  gentleman  born 
and  bred,  like  you.  Livingston  may  go  if  he  likes  ; 
he's  a  good-for-nothing  rattle-pate  at  best,  but  you're 
not  of  that  sort.  Don't  you  go  to  Sleaford's,  Geoff, 
any  more — to  please  the  old  man  !" 

He  lays  his  hand,  in  his  earnestness,  on  the  lad's 


IX  WHICH  M".   AnnOTT  AS.SKllTS  IIIMSKLF.       103 


I  ■'  1- 


Blioiildor,  and  looks  with  troublofl  eyes  clown  into  hi? 
faco.  (ieoirrc'V  Hhruofs  his  siiouhlcrs — the  ohl,  instinct- 
ivc  fooling  of  slirinking  from  his  stop-fathor  novoi 
moro  strongly  upon  him. 

"  I  am  not,  likoly  to  go  tliore  as  Frank  does,"  ho 
answers,  carelessly  ;  "  he  likes  that  sort  of  thing — I  do 
not.  But  once  or  twice  more  I  believe  I  must.  I  have 
a  little  project  on  hand  connected  with  one  of  that 
family  which  will  take  me  there  again — at  least  as 
often  as  that." 

JMr.  Abbott's  gaze  grows  more  and  more  perturbed. 

"  One  of  that  family  !"  he  repeats.  "  You  don't 
mind  my  asking  which  one,  do  you,  GeolT  ?     It  ain't 

"  lie  hesitates  ;  bully,  braggart,  bold  man  that  he 

is,  he  has  a  strong  respect  for  this  boy.  "  It  ain't — 
excuse  me — one  of  the  girls?" 

lie  fears  to  meet  that  icy  stare  he  knows  so  well 
from  both  mother  and  son,  and  resents  so  bitterly. 
But  to  his  surprise  GeoflFrey  only  laughs. 

"  Exactly,  sir,  one  of  the  girls — the  youngest.  I 
will  not  tell  you  what  it  is  just  now.  You  will  think 
it  absurd,  I  dare  say.  I  will  speak  to  my  mother  first, 
and  she  will  inform  vou.  There  !  I  see  her  on  the  ter- 
race.     Excuse  me,  sir,  she  is  beckoning." 

He  darts  away,  his  face  lighting.  As  a  sculptor 
may  regard  some  peerless  marble  goddess,  almost  as  a 
good  Catholic  may  reverence  some  fair,  sweet  saint,  so 
Geoffrey  Lamar  looks  upon  his  mother.  To  him  she  is 
liege  lady  ;  to  him  she  stands  alone  among  women  for 
beauty,  culture,  grace,  goodness.  Her  very  pride 
makes  a  halo  around  her  in  his  love-blind  eyes. 

John  Abbott  does  not  attempt  to  go  after  him. 
Neither  mother  nor  son  need  him  or  desire  him  ;  he 


ill 


m 


t  I 


104    IX  WHICH  Mil.  AunoTT  asserts  himself. 


would  l)(f  l)Ut  ;i  hairier  to  (heir  coiifKU'iioc,  a  blol  on 
(ho  huidscajx'.  lie  fct'ls  it,  now,  as  lie  lias  fell  if  .'V 
thousand  times,  with  silent,  inipoteiil-  wr;;tli,  htiL  \\\a 
anjjfcr  is  mingled  just  at  present  witii  another  feeling 
— fear. 

"  His  motlier  !"  he  savs,  vacantlv  ;  "  he  is  •.<;oin<4  to 
tell  his  mother  !  One  of  the  Slciford  <;irltj — tho  young- 
est.    I — I  (h)n'L  like  the  look  of  this." 

J\Irs.  Ahhott  stands  o!i  the  teir.ice,  tho  crimson 
western  light  falling  full  upon  her,  and  smiles  as  her 
son  draw's  near.  Slu(  h  a  heautiful  v.'oman,  tall,  slen- 
der, o!lvo-skinnt'd,  with  dnrk,  solemn,  Honlhern  eyes, 
and  languid,  high-hred  grace  in  e'.ery  slow  niovement. 
She  is  like  a  picture  as  she  stands  here — like  a  Titian 
or  a  ?JuriIlo  step{)ed  out  of  its  frame — in  her  traHing 
dross  of  violet  silk,  t'le  delicate  laces,  the  cluster  dia- 
mond at  her  throat,  the  gueldei'-rose  in  her  hair.  She 
looks  as  a  queen  might — as  a  queen  bhouhl — regal, 
royal,  superb. 

"  I  hope  you  are  in  very  good  liumor,  mother,"  is 
GeolTrey's  greeting,  plunging  into  business  at  once  ; 
"because  I  have  come  to  ask  a  favor — a  very  great 
favor,  you  may  thin.k." 

Mrs.  Abbott's  smile,  faint  but  very  sweet,  answers. 
Iler  eyes  rest  on  her  l)oy  lovingly,  lingeringly — he  is 
very,  very  dear  to  her.  She  loves  her  little  Leo,  too  ; 
but  there  is  this  dilTerence — tdie  loves  GeolTrev  for  his 
father's  sake  as  well  as  liis  own. 

"Do  I  ever  refuse  you  anytliing,  I  wonder?"  slio 
says,  slightly  amused.  "  You  are  a  tyrant,  GeofT,  and 
abuse  your  power.  It  is  one  of  iny  failings,  but  I  can- 
not say  no." 

"But  I  am  uncommouly  afraid  you  will  this  time. 


m 


IN  ^ViriCII  MM.   AHIJOTT  ASSKllTS  TIIMSKLF.       K^") 


Ii  i.s  no  trifle.     It  will  lio  a  rosj)unsil)ility,  and  you  may 
thinl;  it  dcroscatorv  lu'sidcs." 

The  Mniilc!  fades  from  hov  faoo. 

"  Yo)/,  could  ;i('V('r  ask  luo  to  do  anything  you 
thought  thai,"  she  (iMietiy  says. 

"  Nor  do  I — you  may.  It  will  bo  a  l)oro,  I  am  sure. 
The  only  thing  to  bo  said  in  its  favor  is,  that  you  will 
bo  doing  good." 

"Doing  good  can  never  l)e  derogatory.  Go  on, 
GeofTrey,  out  with  t!iis  wonderful  re(iuest.  What  a 
philanthrojtist,  by-the-bye,  you  aregetling  to  be." 

The  proud,  smiling  look  returns — she  takes  his  arm, 
and  ihey  saunter  slowly  u})  and  down  the  terrace. 

"Don't  call  natnes,  madre  mio,"  laiigh.^  Geoffrey. 
"Well — hero  goes  !  J>ut  thereby  hangs  a  tale,  to 
"which  5'ou  must  listen  by  way  of  prologue  or  argu- 
ment. The  favor  come  after.  Lend  mo  thine  ears 
then — I  will  a  tale  unfold." 

And  then — not  without  dramatic  power  and  pathoa 
—he  tells  the  story  of  JSleafonrs  Joanna. 

"She  is  treated  as  you  would  not  see  a  dog  iji  your 
house  treated,  mother  ;  she  is  in  a  very  liot-lu'd  of  ig- 
norance, and  vulgarity  and  vice.  And  I  am  sure  sho 
is  not  naturally  bad.  She  has  a  love  for  reading  which 
speaks  well  for  her,  and  her  voice — ah  !  well,  you  will 
have  to  liear  that  before  you  can  believe  it.  This  is 
the  story,  mother — the  favor  is,  will  you  stretch  out 
your  hand — this  beautiful  hand,"  the  young  knight  ex- 
^  claims,  kissing  it,  "and  save  that  wretched  child  !" 

"My  Geofi  I"  the  lady  answers,  a  tremor  in  her 
voice,  "  how  ?" 

"Send  for  her  Ijcre — make  ^Fiss  Rice  give  licr  les- 
sons in  English  and  singing,  lift  her  out  of  the  slough 


III 


; : 


if 


t^\ 


5* 


!  I 


^ 


106    IN  WHICH  mr.  abbott  asserts  himself. 

of  flarkiioss  in  wliioli  slie  is  lost  now.  Save  her  body 
and  soul  !     You  can,  motlier." 

There  is  emotion  in  tlie  lad's  voice,  in  his  earnest 
face,  in  his  deep,  glowing  gray  eyes,  Ilis  motlier 
stops  in  her  walk,  tears  on  her  dark  lashes,  both  hands 
on  his  shoulders. 

"  3Iy  boy  !  my  boy  !  but  it  is  like  yon.  Oh  !  I 
thank  the  i^ood  God  for  jjivincj  me  such  a  son.  Yes, 
what  I  can  do,  I  will.  It  is  an  awful  responsibility,  ai\ 
awful  thought,  that  the  life,  the  soul  of  any  human 
creature  may  be  in  our  hands.  If  I  can  help  her,  save 
her,  as  you  say,  I  am  ready.  I  say  noth.ing  in  your 
praise.  Heaven  has  given  you  a  great  heart,  my 
GeoflFrey — your  father's  noble  soul.  I'o  lift  the  lost, 
to  save  the  unfortunate,  what  can  be  nobler?  Yes,  I 
will  do  it.     Send  her  here  when  you  will." 

The  outburst  is  over — she  pauses.  She  seldom 
gives  way  to  her  feelings  like  this.  There  is  silence 
for  a  little  ;  both  descend  to  the  lower  earth  agnln. 

"  But  she  cannot  associate  with  Leo,"  Mrs.  Abbott 
days,  in  her  usual  manner,  "  such  a  child  as  that  !" 

"Certainly  not.  What  I  thought  was,  that  after 
Miss  Rice  had  finished  Leo's  lessons  for  the  day,  she 
should  dismiss  her,  and  take  in  hand  Joanna.  Her 
name  is  Joanna.  Leo  always  finishes  by  three — Joanna 
could  come  from  three  to  six.  Of  course.  Miss  Rice 
will  be  willing,  and  glad  of  the  extra  salary." 

*'  Of  course.  These  people  will  make  no  objection 
to  the  little  girl's  coming,  will  they?  They  must  be 
very  drea<lful  from  what  you  say.  I  wonder  that  Mr. 
Abbott,  particular  as  he  is,  allows  them  on  his  land.*' 

"  Others  wonder  too,"  Geoffrey  responds,  flryly, 
"  The  fact  remains — he  does.     I  really  do  not  know 


T 


IN"  WHICH  MR.   ABBOTT  ASSERTS  HIMSELF.      107 

wliotlior  tlioy  will  object  or  not.  I  spoke  to  no  one, 
of  course,  until  I  had  sjiokt-n  to  yon.  If  they  refuse, 
why,  we  can  do  no  more.  I  will  ride  over  and  see  tO' 
morrow.  Meantime,  I  su[)j)ose  it  will  be  necessary  to 
mention  it  to  Mr.  Abbott  " 

"  I  supjtose  so  " — the  smooth  brow  of  the  lady  con- 
tracts a  little — she  does  not  like  mentioning  things  tc 
Mr.  Abbott — "  but  it  cannot  matter  to  him." 

"No,  but  still  h'j  likes " 

"  Yes,  yes,  it  shall  be  done.  I  see  liim  yonder,  and 
will  speak  to  him  at  once,  if  you  like." 

"Thank  you,  mother." 

She  approaches  her  husband.  She  walks  with  tlie 
slow,  swaying  grace  of  a  Southern  woman,  the  lighta 
and  shadows  from  sunshine  and  trees  Hecking  the  vio- 
let sheen  of  lier  dress.  Her  son  watches  her,  so  does 
her  husband,  both  with  eyes  that  say,  "  Is  she  not  the 
fairest  of  all  the  fair  women  on  earth  ?" 

jMr.  Abbott  removes  his  cigar,  and  stands  with  a 
tertain  deference  of  manner,  as  his  wife  draws  near. 
If  her  dark  head  is  lifted  a  trille  higher  than  usual,  it  is 
instinctive  with  her  when  about  to  ask  what  sounds  to 
her  like  a  favor.  If  the  voice  in  which  she  speaks  has 
a  prouder  inllection  than  customary,  it  is  unconsci- 
ously and  for  the  same  reason.  Iti  briefest  words  she 
tells  the  story.  Geoffrey  has  taken  a  fancy  to  help  a 
poor  little  village  child — may  she  come  here  and  re- 
ceive lessons  from  ]\[iss  Rice,  when  Miss  Rice  has  fin- 
ished every  day  with  Leonora  ? 

It  is  not  often  jMrs.  Abbott  voluntarily  seeks  her 
husband,  or  asks  him  for  favors.  His  coarse  face 
quite  lights  up  into  gladness  now. 

"  Certainly,  certainly,  certainly  !"  he  says,  "  any- 


ill 
ill 


J       I 


-If!  :d   «    fi       . 


i* 


Mi^il  '■■ 


108      IN  WHICH  MR.  ABBOTT  ASSERTS  IIIMSIJLF. 


thing  you  and  GeolT  wi^li.  Half  a  dozen  villas^e  ^\vU 
if  you  liko,  my — my  dtar.  Tlio  lad's  tlio  bost  lad 
alive — sonsihlo,  steady,  good-natured.  I'm  fond  of 
him.  that  I  am,  ]Mrs.  Abbott." 

"Thanks,"  Mrs.  Abbott  says,  bending  her  stately 
head.  She  turns  to  go,  has  gone  half  a  dozen  steps, 
when  her  liusband's  voice  reaches  her. 

"Nora." 

She  turns  slowly.  lie  seldom  calls  her  by  her 
name  ;  he  stand:-;,  looking  rather  3hee])ishly  now  at  iiia 
cigar. 

"You've  never  been  over  to  Laurel  Hill — the  new 
place  I  bought  last  Meek.  It's  an  uncommon  pretty 
spot — eight  miles  t'other  side  of  I>i-iglitbrt)()k.  Sup- 
pose you  let  me  drive  j'ou  there  to-nu)i-row  ?" 

If  he  were  a  suppliant  lover  he  could  hardly  look 
more  humble,  more  anxious.  The  line  between  his 
wife's  straight,  dark  brows  deepens. 

"  To-morrow  I  dine  with  Colonel  and  Mrs.  Yentnor." 

"  Well,  next  day  then." 

"Next  day  I  am  going  up  to  New  York  to  do  some 
very  necessary  shopping." 

"  Well,  the  day  after.  Oh  '.  liang  it,  Nora,  saj'  yes  ! 
You  never  go  anywhere  with  me  now,  and  I  don't  so 
often  ask  you,  neither." 

"  Certainly  I  will  go,"  she  says,  but  she  says  it  so 
coldly,  so  distantly,  that  the  man  sets  his  teeth.  "I 
did  not  know  you  thought  it  a  matter  of  any  moment. 
I  will  go  the  day  after  t:)-morrow,  or  whenever  you 
wish." 

"  I  don't  wish,"  he  returns,  shortly.  "  Don't  trouble 
yourself,  JMrs.  Abbott,  I  don't  wish  for  anything. 
We'll  never  mind  Laurel  Hill  '" 


IN"  WHICH  MR.  ABBOTT  ASSERTS  HIMSELF.      109 

IIo  resumes  liis  cigar,  tuins  his  back  upon  lior, 
thrusts  liis  hands  in  his  pockets,  anil  strides  away. 
But  Iia!I'  an  liour  after,  as  he  still  stalks  sulkily  up 
and  down,  a  thouglit  strikes  him,  a  most  luipleasant 
thought.     It  turns  him  hot  all  over. 

"13y  the  Lord!"  he  cries,  taking  out  his  cigar, 
aghast,  "I  shouldn't  wonder  but  what  it  is P^ 

A  great  bell,  up  in  one  of  the  windy,  make-believe 
Gothic  turrets,  clangs  out  ;  it  is  tlu;  dinner-bell  of 
Abbott  Wood.  The  master  is  not  dressed,  a  faint 
odor  as  of  stables  hangs  about  him,  but  he  is  in  no 
mood  to  conciliate  his  stiff  wife,  and  make  a  dinner 
toilet.  He  is  chafed,  rubbed  over  so  much  the  wrong 
■wa}',  and  it  affords  him  a  grim  sort  of  pleasure  to  set 
her  at  defiance,  and  outrage  her  sense  of  sitrht  and 
smell,  '  '  appearing  just  as  he  is.  lie  marches  into 
the  dini"g-rooni,  grisly,  foibi(bling,  ireful.  It  is  a 
beautiful  and  spacious  room — the  dirmer  service  is  all 
in  the  way  of  plate,  napery,  crystal,  china,  that  money 
can  do  to  make  that  most  ungraceful  necessity — eating 
— graceful.  Flowers  are  there  in  profusion,  a  golden 
after-glow  iills  the  apartment,  the  viands  are  as  nci'rly 
perfect  as  possible,  the  mistress  of  the  mansion  a  fair 
and  gracious  lady,  Geoffrey  the  most  polished  of 
youthfid  Paladins,  little  Leo  like  an  opera  fairy  in 
pitdc  silk,  but  the  master,  stern  and  unsmiling  as  the 
Death's  Head  of  the  Egyptian  banquets,  takes  his 
place,  and  begins  his  soup  in  unsocial  silence  and 
glumness.     At  last  he  looks  up. 

"I  didn't  ask  the  name  of  the  little  beiiiiar  you 
propose  to  bring  here,"  he  says  to  Geoffrey.  "  Who 
is  she?" 

The    youth   glances   at    him   in    surprise.     ThesQ 


'  1^  Mil ' 


IIP  III; 

::: '1:' 


fi  ♦ 


i:;,'  ii; 


110      IN  WHICH  MR.  ABBOTT  ASSERTS  HIMSELF. 


I 


sudden  changes  of  temperature  are  not  uncommon  in 
Mr.  Abbott's  moral  thermometer,  but  they  are  alwaya 
disconcerting. 

"  Her  name  is  Sleaford's  Joanna — or  more  prop- 
erly, I  suppose,  Joanna  Sleaford." 

Mr.  Abbott's  spoon  drops  with  a  clash  in  his  plate. 
As  a  thunder-cloud  blackens  the  face  of  the  sky,  so  a 
swarthy  fr">wn  darkens  the  face  of  the  man. 

"  I  thought  so,"  he  says.  "  It's  well  I  made  sure 
in  time.  I  withdraw  my  consent,  madam.  No  brat 
of  Sleaford's  ever  sets  foot  in  this  house  I" 

"  Sir  !"  Geoffrey  cries,  hotly. 

It  is  the  tone,  the  look,  insolent  beyond  measure, 
addressed  to  his  mother,  that  stings  him.  For  Mrs. 
.\bbott,  she  docs  not  say  a  word.  She  looks  once  at 
Viie  man  before  her,  then  back  at  her  plate- 

"  Ah  !  sit  down,  my  lad — there  is  nothing  for  you 
\o  get  your  mettle  up  about.  Only  Sleaford's  Joanna 
A'on't  come  here.  Leo  is  m^  daughter — I'll  know  who 
'ijhe  associates  with.  And,  by  heavens  !  it  sJia'n't  be 
!vith  a  cub  out  of  Giles  Sleaford's  den  !" 

The  veins  in  liis  forehead  stand  out  purple — he 
brings  his  clenched  fist  down  on  the  table  until  the 
glass  rings. 

Geoffrey's  face  flushes  crimson,  he  looks  at  his 
mother,  prepared  to  resent  this  violence.  She  is  a 
shade  paler  than  usual,  a  little  curl  of  scorn  and  dis- 
gust dilates  the  delicate  nostrils — otherwise  she  is  per- 
fectly calm. 

"  Do  not  excite  yourself,  Mr.  Abbott,"  she  says,  in 
slow,  iced  tones,  "  there  is  really  no  need.  Resume 
your  dinner,  Geoffrey.  Of  course  it  shall  be  quite  as 
Mr.  Abbott  wishes." 


iMriH 


IN  WHICH  MR.  ABBOTT  ASSERTS  IIIMSKLF.      11 1 


And  tliei:  silence  falls — such  silence  !  Mrs.  Abbott 
seems  slowly  to  petrify  as  she  sits.  Geoffrey's  face  is 
rigid  with  wrath.  Mr.  Abbott  makes  short  work  of 
his  dinner,  and  departs  without  a  word.  Only  little 
Leo,  of  the  quartet,  dines  at  all. 

But  one  sentence,  at  rising,  passes  between  the 
mother  and  son. 

"  You  will  tell  this  poor  child  she  cannot  come," 
Mrs.  Abbott  says,  and  Geoffrey  nods. 

But  an  obstinate  look  comes  about  his  moutli  ;  he 
is  not  easily  baffled  ;  those  resolute  lips,  that  curved 
chin,  were  not  ^iven  him  for  nothing.  Joanna  may 
not  come  here,  but  he  will  go  instead  to  Miss  Rice, 
and  arrange  with  her  to  give  the  girl  lessons  at  her 
own  rooms,  llis  pocket-money  is  abundant  ;  he  will 
pay  for  her  himself.  She  shall  be  taught,  that  is  as 
lixed  as  fate,  if  he  has  to  buy  Sleaford's  consent  with 
his  last  penny.  Contradiction  has  the  effect  on  young 
1  amar  it  has  on  all  determined  people — it  only  re- 
doubles his  determination. 

It  rains  the  next  day,  a  steady,  drizzling,  persist- 
Ciit  rain.  But  he  cares  very  little  for  a  wet  jacket ; 
sleeping  on  his  resolution  only  makes  him  more 
resolute.  He  mounts  his  "  dapple  gray "  and  rides 
through  the  dripping  woods  to  Sleaford's.  No  mock 
ing-bird  is  perched  among  the  branches  to-day,  to 
waylay  him  with  its  delusive  melody.  He  reaches  the 
house,  puts  his  horse  under  cover,  and  enters.  Only 
two  of  the  family  are  to  be  seen — Joanna,  scrubbing 
a  floor  that  very  much  needs  scrubbing,  and  Giles 
himself,  smoking,  in  the  corner,  a  meditative  pipt\  He 
greets  his  visitor  with  a  surprised  nod,  and  watches 
him  curiously.     For  Joanna — it  is  evidently  one   of 


iliiii 


!  i 


]■    II 


1J2      IN  WlIK'll   MK'.  ABDOTT  ASSERTS  IIIM3ET.F. 


hor  (lark  d.iys  ;  her  y-\n:\U  face  looks  cross  ajid  canlan- 
koroiis,  slic  c'lii'tly  reliirns  liis  salutation,  slio  "(!nil)s  tlio 
boards  with  il!-t('nij)('i"('d  vt'licincnce.  'I'ho  rain  heats 
against  llio  ])an('s,  the  iionse  and  everything  about  it 
looks  dismal  and  forioin. 

"  Well,  Joanna,"  (ieuffro}''  says,  in  an  undertone,  "  I 
promised  to  come,  and  I  am  liere.  IJut  my  project 
lias  failed  for  tlio  jjrescnt,  1  inl ended  you  to  come  to 
Abbott  AVt)od  every  day  for  lessons,  but  it  seems  it 
cannot  be.  AVe  must  hit  on  some  other  plan.  You 
would  not  mind  going  up  the  village  every  afternoon, 
would  you  V" 

Before  Joanna  can  reply,  Sleaford  takes  his  pipe 
from  his  mouth,  and  breaks  in.  lie  has  caught  the 
words,  low  as  they  are  sj)()ken. 

"What's  that'f  he  demands,  ,<^nifily. 

"I  meant  to  tell  you,"  GeofTrey  courteously  re 
turns,  '"^  and  ask  your  consent.  Of  course,  all  this  is 
sn.bject  to  your  control.  Your  little  girl  is  clever,  I 
think,  and  has  a  fine  voice.  I  intended  to  have  her 
tauglit,  and  tliat  voice  cultivated — always  with  your 
permission.  I  thought  at  first  of  getting  her  to  come 
every  day  to  our  house,  but " 

"' Well,  but  what  ?" 

"  It  cannot  bo,  it  seems.  Still,  I  can  manage  it. 
She  can  go  to  Drightbrook  and  take  lier  lessons  there 
instead." 

"  Stop  a  bit,"  says  Giles  Sleaford,  resuming  his 
pipe  ;  "  why  can't  she  go  to  Abbott  Wood  ?" 

"  Well,"  Geoffrey  replies,  wdth  that  frank  regard 
for  simple  truth  that  is  characteristic  of  him,  "  the 
fact  is,  Mr.  Abbott  objects.  Kot  that  it  matters  at 
all — the  other  way  will  do  just  as  well." 


IN  WIHCII  MR.   ABBOTT  ASSERTS  IIiriSELF.      113 

"Slop  a  bit  !"  ropo;its  Mr.  Sloaford  ;  "did  you  put 
it  to  your  ^uv'ruT,  *  I  want  to  learn  a  littlo  girl,'  says 
yon,  '  that  don't  know  nothin'  hut  cussin'  and  iownoss, 
and  make  a  lady  out  o'  her !'  Did  you  put  it  like 
thai  r 

"  S')nu'lhincf  like  that — yes." 

"Xaniin'  no  names  at  Tust  ?" 

"  Kxaetly." 

"And  wli:it  did  he  say  then?''* 

"  \V\'ll,  he  .said  yes,"  answers  Geoffrey,  a  little  em- 
barrassed, but  still  adherint^  to  truth. 

"And  when  he  i'ound  who  it  was  ho  "wouldn't. 
'Give  her  a  niime,'  ses  he.  '  SieaforiTs  Joanna,'  ses 
you.  '  I'm  d — d  if  you  do  !'  ses  he,  'none  o'  that  lot 
comes  here  !'     That  was  it,  wasn't  it '?" 

"  Well,  more  or  less,"  Geoffrey  returns,  lauejhing 
in  sj)ite  ol'  himself.  "  You  must  be  a  wizard,  I  think, 
Mr.  Sieaford.  lint  it  reidly  docs  not  matter,  you 
know  ;  the  otlun*  way " 

"Sto})  a  bit  1"  reiterates  Giles  Sieaford.  "  Was  it 
your  intentions  as  how  your  mar  should  look  arter 
Joanner  when  she  went  up  to  the  big  house,  and  kind 
o'  help  to  eddieate  her  and  that?" 

"  It  was,  but  as  I  say " 

"  Stop  a  bit !  hold  on — it  ain't  the  same  no  way, 
sendin'  her  to  the  village  to  a  teacher  woman.  The 
gal  sh;  11  go  to  your  guv'ner's  iiouse  or  she  shan't  go 
at  all.  Now  you  stop  a  bit,  don't  do  nothin'  afore  to- 
morrow, and  maybe — I  name  no  names,  mind  you  ! — 
and  maybe  she  can  be  let  to  go  to  your  mar." 

With  which  Mr.  Sieaford  relapses  into  ruminative 
yilence  and  slowly  refills  his  pipe,  which  has  gone  out. 
There  i^  a  grim  sort  of  grin  on  his  forbidding  face  U3 


1 1 


•it     \ 


IM 


^i\\' 


%%i  •' 


|W;.I 


ft  II 


M 


<     '  I 


H- 

s.»  IS 


■f  -. 


Ii 


I  ii  ' 


I   ! 


114 


*'  nobody's  child.*' 


'^1 


HI 
I 


1 1 

'If 

ill 


he  (loos  so,  and  ho  swallows   a  chuckle  or  two  as  he 
watches  the  heir  of  Abbott  Wood  rise  and  go  away. 

"So  Red    Jack    won't,   won't  Ik;?"  he  says,   half 
aloud,  with  one  of  these  suppressed  chuckles;  "  because 
^  she's  a  Sleaford  !     Ah  !  well,  we  will  see." 


♦♦»■ 


CHAPTER    XII. 


"nobody's  child." 


S'il 


R.  ABIJOTT  is  siltiniT^  alone  in  the  library 
at  Al)bott  Wood.  For  the  very  great  per- 
sonage he  is  in  some  respects,  his  position 
is  an  undignified  one.  He  has  tilted  back 
the  carved  and  cushioned  chair  in  which  his  bulky 
l>ody  reposes,  elevated  his  boots  on  the  low  black  mar- 
ble mantel,  and  is  rapidly  filling  the  room  with  tobacco 
smoke.  A  frown  still  rests  on  his  brow  ;  he  has  not 
forgiven  his  wife — he  is  not  disposed  to  forgive  her  ; 
it  is  only  one  more  added  to  the-  lengthy  list  of  affronts 
she  has  })ut  upon  him. 

"And  if  ever  I  get  a  chance,"  he  mutters,  as  he 
smokes,  "I'll  pay  you  back  with  interest,  my  high  and 
mighty  lady  !" 

Little  Leo  lias  just  left  him.  She  is  his  at  any  rate; 
he  will  have  her  with  him  when  he  chooses,  in  the  very 
teeth  of  her  scornful  mother.  The  child  is  sufficiently 
fond  of  him;  he  is  foolishly  indulgent  to  her,  after  the 
manner  of  his  kind  ;  but  now  she,  too,  has  quitted 
him.  Nine  has  struck,  and  nurse  has  come  and  borne 
her  off.     At  present  he  is  solacing  himself  with  a  pipe, 


"  nobody's  child." 


115 


the  evening  paper,  and  some  orusty  port,  until  it  shall 
be  time  to  go  to  bed. 

"  A  wet  night,  by  jingo  !"  ho  says,  as  in  tiie  pausos 
of  rattling  the  paper  ho  hears  the  dash  of  tiie  rain 
against  the  glas^s,  and  the  sougli  of  the  wind  in  the 
trees. 

The  room  in  whieh  he  sits  is  a  grand  one — a  hun- 
dred years  old  to  look  .,t,  at  least  :  everything  in  it, 
about  i.,,  is  richly  hued,  deeply  tinted,  warmly  toned. 
There  is  an  oriel  window,  where  sunset  lights  fall 
through  on  a  dark,  polished  oaken  tloor  in  orange,  and 
ruby,  and  amethystVlyes.  A  soft,  rose-rod  carpet  cov- 
ers the  center  of  the  tloor  ;  a  tiger-skin  rug  is  stretched 
in  front  of  the  shining  grate.  Mellow-brown  panels 
are  everywhere  where  books  are  not.  Books  are 
many  ;  hundreds  of  volumes  in  costly  bindings — pur- 
ple, crimson, white  and  gold — not  a  "dummy"  among 
them  all.  There  are  bronzes,  and  a  few  dark  ])aintings 
of  the  litej'ary  ligiits  of  the  world,  quaint  old  furni- 
ture, all  carved  with  arabesques  and  griffin's-heads, 
and  upholstered  in  bright  crimson  cloth.  Here,  too, 
as  in  nearly  every  room  of  the  house,  is  burned  in  the 
panes  the  escutcheon  of  his  Southern  wife.  It  looks  a 
very  temple  of  culture  and  learning,  and,  with  the  usual 
fine  irony  of  fate,  John  Abbott  is  its  high  priest. 
Not  one,  of  all  these  hundreds  of  costly  volumes,  does 
his  stumpy  brown  fingers  ever  open  ;  his  literature  ia 
confined  to  the  New  York  and  Brightbrook  daily 
papers,  and  all  the  sporting  journals  he  can  buy. 

As  he  sits  and  puffs  his  clouds  of  smoke,  and 
swallows  his  wine,  there  is  a  tap  at  the  door,  and  a 
man-servant  enters. 

"  Well/'  inquires  Mr.  Abbott,  "  what  now  ?" 


1  i 


1^ 


llj 

I V'  1  i 

i;    (J  t 

If 
■I  > 

J% 
'»^  If 


i!    it 


I  i 


I  ) 


118 


*'  noi?ody\s  child." 


'i5 


"  TIktc!  is  a  111:111  in  tliu  li.ill,  sir,  to  sec  you  partic* 
iilar.     Ho  says  liis  iiamo  is  Sloafonl." 

TIio  servant  Iool<s  at  liim  with  covert  cnnnincj  as 
lie  makos  the  aniioiiiiC(.'m('nt.  In  a  place  like  l]ri«,Mit' 
brook  tlicre  can  bo  no  sticli  thinjx  as  a  secret.  'I'lie 
fiorvants  of  Abbott  Wood  have  licanl  of  the  SU\aror(ls, 
but  tliis  is  the  iirst  time  one  of  that  colobratotl  family 
has  presented  himself  at  the  manor.  ]Mr.  Abbott 
drops  his  jjajter,  and  slov.ly  rises  from  his  chair,  a  gray 
pallor  overspreading  the  [x'ony  huo  of  his  fac(\ 

"Sleaford!"  lie  repeats,  blankly;  "diil  you  say 
Sieaford  '?" 

*' Sleaford,  sir — Giles  Sieaford.  lie  is  waiting  in 
the  vestibule,  drip])ing  wet.  Told  him  I  didn't  know 
you  were  at  home,  sir,  but  would  see.  Are  you  at 
homo,  sir  ?" 

"Show  him  in,  you  fool,  and  be  quick  !" 

The  man  retreats.  j\Ir.  Abbott  resumes  his  chair, 
breathing  quickly,  that  grayisli  shade  still  on  his  face, 
and  tries  to  resume  his  usual  bluif,  blustering  manner 
as  "well,  but  in  vain.  lie  is  frightened — bragujart, 
boaster  that  he  is  ;  his  hand  shakes — he  is  forced  to 
fling  aside  his  paper  with  an  oath. 

"  Sieaford  !"  he  tliinks  ;  "this  time  of  uiglit — and 
such  a  night !     Good  G !   what  is  he  after  now  ?" 

The  door  reopens,  and,  dripping  like  a  huge  water- 
dog,  his  hat  on  his  head,  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
Giles  Sieaford  stalks  into  the  room.  "  Oh,  you  are  to 
home!"  he  says,  with  a  sneer;  "the  flunkey  said  as 
how  he  didn't  know.  It  ain't  the  kind  o'  night  heavy 
swells  like  John  Abbott,  Esquire,  of  Al)bott  Wood, 
would  be  like  to  go  out  promenadin'.  It's  as  black  as 
a  wolf's  mouth,  and  comiu'  down  like  blazes." 


U  II 


"  nobody's  CiriLD.  * 


117 


"SiL  down,  Sleafonl,"  says  ]\Ir.  Abbott,  in  a  tono 
of  uiarlvL-d  civilitv.  IIo  sends  »)no  of  tlie  carvod  and 
cnsliionc'd  cliairs  wIiiiTm;^  on  its  castors  toward  hltn, 
bnt  iMr.  Sloaford  only  glainios  at  it  with  jfrofound 
con((Mnj)t.  "  It  is,  as  you  say,  the  duuco  and  all  of  a 
nigljt  to  bo  out  in.  But  mow  that  you  are  hero,  if 
there  is  anyt!jin<y  I  can  do  for  you " 

*' Ah  !  if  tiicro  is  !"  returns  i\Ir.  Sloaford,  still  sar- 
donic ;  "as  if  tiicro  was  anything  a  rich  gent  like 
]Mr.  Abbott  coJtUlit't  do  for  a  poor  bloke  like  me.  As 
if  I  would  tranij)  it  through  mud  and  water  a  good 
three  mile  for  the  pleasure  of  lookin'  at  your  jini- 
cracks,  and  axin'  arter  your  'eUh.  Yes,  there  is  some- 
thin'  yoti  can  do  for  me,  and  what's  more,  you've  got 
to  do  it,  or  ri'  know  the  reason  why." 

The  sneer  changes  to  a  menace.  Mr.  Abbott  rises 
with  precipitation,  opens  the  door  quickly,  and  looks 
down  the  long,  lighted  passage.  There  are  no  eaves- 
droppers. He  closes  the  door,  locks  it,  and  faces  his 
man.  The  danger  is  liere,  and  he  does  not  lack  pluck 
to  meet  it. 

"What  do  you  want?''  he  demands  ;  "  it  was  part 
of  our  bargain  that  you  were  never  to  come  here. 
Why  Jire  you  here?  I'm  not  a  man  to  be  trilled  with 
— you  ought  to  know  that  before  to-night." 

"  There  ain't  mucli  about  you.  Jack  Abbott,  tliat  I 
don't  know,"  Sleaford  retorts,  coolly.  "  Don't  take  on 
none  o'  your  rich-man  airs  witli  me.  This  is  a  snug 
crib — all  this  here  pooty  furniture  and  books  cost  a 
few  dollars,  I  reckon.  You  v/ouldn't  like  to  swop  'em 
for  a  cell  in  Sing  Sing,  and  a  guv'ment  striped  suit? 
What  am  I  here  for?     I'm  here  to  find  out  why  one  o' 


T^nr 

'  i 

i 

'  f  1 

] 

■  'if 


'i 


5|-i 
I  I 


h 


I 


III 


'!■« 


!i! 


IJJ 


t    I 


•  1 
'■  {. 

t 
i ,' 

!■;■ 


*.  i(  1 


!     '} 


;s;Uil 


|.- 


113 


*'  Nononv's  CHILD.'* 


U: 


I* 


my  kids  ain't  to  oomo  to  your  wife  to  ijot  a  tMldication, 
if  lliaL  tluTo  yontiuf  sport,  your  step-son,  says  so?" 

Tlu!  two  men  look  t-ach  other  sfraiL,'lit  in  the  oyos 
—  (leree,  (loLjLjed  doterrniiiation  it)  Sleafonrs,  malig- 
nant, l)anie(l  Inry  in  Ahhott's. 

"So  I  this  is  what  yon  want,  T)lack  Giles?" 

"  This  is  what  I  want,  Jack  Abbott.  And  what  I'll 
have,  by  tlio  Eternal  !  Mind  yon,  I  don't  care  a  cuss 
about  edilieation,  nor  whether  the  gal  ever  knows  B 
from  a  cow's  horn,  but  the  young  gent  wants  it,  and 
you  wore  willin'  till  you  found  out  who  she  was,  and 
then  you  wouldn't.  Now,  I'll  stand  none  o'  that.  My 
gal's  coniin'  up  here  to  be  eddicated  by  your  wife," 
says  Mr.  Sleaford,  beating  out  iiis  ))roposition  witli  tho 
finger  of  one  hand  on  the  palm  of  the  other,  "which  ia 
a  lady  born  and  bred,  and  by  your  step-son,  which  lie's 
what  all  the  gold  that  ever  panned  out  in  the  diggins 
can't  make  you — a  gentleman.  You  forbid  it  yes'day 
— you'll  take  that  back  to-morrow,  and  whenever  the 
young  swell  says  the  word,  Joanner's  comin'  up  here 
for  that  there  eddication  !" 

All  this  Mr.  Sleaford  says,  slowly  and  impressively 
— by  no  means  in  a  passion.  Ilis  hat  is  still  on  his 
head — politeness  with  Black  Giles  is  not  a  matter  of 
hat.  And  he  fixes  Mr.  Abbott  with  his  "glittering 
eye,"  while  he  thus  dogmatically  lays  down  the  law. 
Mr.  Abbott,  too,  has  cooled.  Indeed,  for  two  ex- 
tremely choleric  gentlemen,  their  manner  has  quite 
the  repose  that  marks  the  caste  of  Vere  de  Vere.  The 
master  of  the  mansion  takes  a  turn  or  two  np  and 
down  the  slippery  floor  before  he  replies.  The  tenant 
of  the  Red  Farm  eyes  him  with  stolid  malignity. 

"  I  wish   you  wouldn't  insist  on   this,  Giles,"  he 


jum_-iiji>wwi 


*'  Nononv's  (miild. 


i» 


IIQ 


Bays,  in  a  tiotiblod  tone,  at  last.  *'  I  have  a  nasoii  for 
it.     Coino  !  ril  buy  y(Mi  olT.     I'll  i(ivo  yoii " 

"  No,  yoii  woiTt.  1  ain't  to  In;  l)oii'.;lit  olT.  Slio's 
got  to  ('OHIO.  lint  Tin  out  o'  cash.  I  want  thioo  Imn- 
tlrod  dollars." 

John  Abbott's  eyes  Hash,  but  still  lie  holds  hiniscdf 
in  hand. 

"  You  arc  jokinij  !  Only  last  week  I  gavo  you '* 

"  Never  mind  last  week,  tliat's  gone  with  last 
year's  snow.  It's  no  good  palaverin' — you  know  what 
I  want.  All  your  money  wouldn't  buy  me  off.  She's 
got  to  come." 

Again  silence — again  broken  by  Mr.  Abbott. 

"How  old  is  this  confounded  girl?"  lie  demands, 
and  mentally  consigns  her  to  perdition.  "Your  girls 
ought  to  be  all  grown  up,  Slcaford." 

"  Ought  they.  Well,  they  ain't.  She's  twelve, 
just." 

"Twelve!  What  nonsense!  Why,  your  wife's 
been  dead  these  sixteen  years." 

"Ah  I"  says  Giles  Sleaford. 

It  is  a  brief  interjection,  but  the  tone,  the  glare 
that  goes  with  it  brings  back  the  blood  in  a  purple 
glow  to  the  other  man's  face. 

"  We  won't  talk  about  that^''  says  Sleaford  between 
liis  teeth,  "  nor  what  followed.  'Cause  why  ?  I  might 
forget  you  was  the  richest,  respectablest  gent  iiere- 
abouts,  and  fly  at  your  throat,  and  choke  the  black 
heart  out  o'  you.  Gimme  that  money  and  let  me  git  ! 
The  blackest  night  that  ever  blowed  is  better  than  a 
pallis  with  you  in  it." 

With  a  cowed  look,  Mr.  Abbott  goes  to  a  desk, 
couQts  over  a  roll  of  bills,  and  hands  it  to  his  tenant. 


i'' 


%  liii 


120 


"  nobody's  child." 


'i  'X 


"  SloaforJ,"  ho  sriys,  alrjiost  in  a  supplicutlng  tone, 
"I  vvisli  voii  would  <j:o  awav  from  here.  IVoijle  are 
talkinii:.  Tho  Jied  Farm  is  <Toi!i<x  to  the  (loi<;s.  ll'.s 
not  tliat  I  caro  for  tliat.  1  dt)n't  care  for  that,  hut 
— but  I  don't  want  ]»ooplo  to  talk.  I've  been  a  good 
friend  to  you,  Giles " 

'J'he  wild-beast  glare  that  looks  at  him  out  of  Giles 
Sleaford's  eyes  makes  him  pause. 

"  About  mone)',  I  mean"  he  resumes  liurriedly. 
*' I'm  not  stingy,  no  niaji  ever  called  n)e  that.  Name 
your  i)rice  and  go.  Back  to  San  Fraticisoo  :  you  can 
have  a  gooil  time  there  ;  and  let  by-gones  be  by-gones. 
I'll  come  down  haiulsome,  by  Jove,  I  will." 

Giles  Sleaford  pockets  tho  money,  and  looks  at 
him  with  wolfish  eyes. 

"  I'm  a  poor  devil,"  he  says,  "but  if  I  was  poorer, 
if  I  was  a  dog  in  a  ditch,  I  wouldn't  take  half  vour 
millions  and  leave  \on.  I  had  Mork  enough  to  find 
yon.  Lord  knows  !  J3ut  I  haoe  found  you,  and  while 
you  and  me's  above  ground  we'll  never  part." 

He  turns  with  the  words  and  leaves  the  library. 
No  more  is  said,  no  good-night  is  exchanged.  Mr. 
Abbott  in  person  sees  his  visitor  to  the  door,  and  lota 
him  out.  The  darkness  is  profound,  a  great  gust  of 
■wind  and  rain  beats  in  their  faces,  but  Giles  Sleaford 
plunges  into  the  black  gulf  and  tramps  doggedly  cut 
of  sight. 

%  4:  i|c  i|t  Ik  ^ 

Next  day,  as  Geoffrey  Lamar  is  leaving  tlie  liouse 
after  breakfast,  on  purpose  to  ride  to  the  village  and 
see  Miss  Rice,  the  teacher,  his  step-father  approaches, 
in  a  shu filing  way,  and  lays  his  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"  If  I  said  anything  t'other  day  at   dinner,"    he 


ir ' 

i 


"  NOIiODY'S   CTIILD." 


121 


\i 


says,  gruffly,  but  apologoticaliy,  "I  want  you  to  over- 
look it,  dear  bo}'.  1  was  put  out,  and  I  showed  it. 
Lei  that  littU>  ffirl  come  whenever  a  o;i  like." 

Geoffrey  glanees  at  him,  rather  haughtily.  It  is  one 
of  his  failings  that  he  is  slow  to  forgive. 

"  It  is  a  matter  of  no  consequence  whether  she  ever 
conies  here  or  not.  I  am  perfectly  satisfied  to  let  it 
drop." 

"  No,  you  ain't,  dear  boy — you  know  you  ain't.  You 
want  her  to  come,  and  so  does  your  mother.  I'm  sorry 
— I  can't  say  no  more.  Fetch  her  here  and  forget 
my  words." 

"  Very  well,  sir,"  Geoffrey  returns  in  his  grand 
manner — his  head  thrown  back,  his  mouth  somewhat 
stern.  It  is  a  very  natural  manner  with  the  lad,  and 
is  exceedingly  effective  with  most  people.  80  it  is  to 
Sleaford's  he  rides,  instead  of  to  the  village,  and  the 
result  is,  that,  dressed  in  iier  holiday  best,  Sleaford's 
Joanna  ])resents  herself  on  Monday  afternoon  at 
Abbott  Wood  to  bey-in  her  education. 

jNIrs.  Abbott  looks  at  the  wild  creature  in  wonder 
and  pity.  Out  in  the  woods  tliere  is  a  certain  free, 
lithe  grace  about  the  girl — in  this  grand  room,  before 
tbis  grand  lady,  she  stands  shifting  from  one  foot  to 
the  other,  downcast  of  face,  awkward  of  manner,  shy, 
silent,  uncouth.  Even  the  attempts  at  civilization,  the 
shoes  and  stockings,  the  smoothed  hair,  the  washed 
and  shining  face,  embarrass  her  by  their  painful  nov- 
elty. Miss  Rice  is  there,  a  little,  brisk,  old  body,  with 
round,  bird-like  eyes,  and  the  general  air  of  a  lively 
robin,  in  her  brown  stuff  dress. 

My  son  tells  me  you  can  sing,"  Mr,s.  Abbott  says 


(( 


a 


•].•,]  ,1 


ihi 


'^;i  m 


,    .« 


„   I 


lii  i: 


!"  11 


122 


"  nobody's  child." 


:Hi 


r^H 


\M 


in  licr  slow,  sweet  way.     "Will  you  sing  something 
for  us  that  we  may  judge?" 

As  well  ask  her  to  Jly  !  Joanna  stands  mute,  a  des- 
perate feeling  creeping  over  her  to  make  a  dash  for 
the  door,  and  ily  forever  to  Bhick's  Dam. 

"You  cannot  V"  with  a  smile.  "Ah!  well,  it  is 
natural.  Miss  llice  will  play  something  for  you 
instead,  and  I  will  leave  you  to  get  acquainted." 

So  Mrs.  Abbott,  with  line  tact,  goes,  and  Joanna 
draws  a  free  breath  for  the  iii'st  time.  So  much 
))eaut)',  and  con<lescension,  and  silk  dress,  have  over- 
whelmed her.  i^Iiss  liice  is  insignitii'ant — she  never 
overw helmed  any  one  in  her  life.  She  goes  to  the 
])iano,  and  ])lays  what  she  tb.inks  Joanna  will  like,  a 
sparkling  waltz,  and  a  gay  polka. 

Joanna  doen  like  it,  and  listens  with  rapture. 

"  Now  tell  me  some  of  your  songs,  and  I  will  play 
the  accompaniment,"  says  Miss  Rice. 

Joanna  goes  over  half  a  dozen.  "  Old  Dog  Tray," 
"Wait  for  the  Wagon,"  "Sally,  Come  Up."  Miss 
Rice  knows  none  of  them. 

"  Here  is 'Nobody's  Child.'  Can  you  sing  that?" 
she  asks. 

As  it  chances,  Joanna  can,  pnd  does.  All  her  em- 
barrassment is  gone  with  Mrs.  Abbott.  Her  strong 
young  voice  takes  up  the  air,  as  Miss  Rice  softly 
strikes  the  chords,  and  peals  out  full  and  clear.  There 
is  a  mournful  appropriateness  in  every  word. 

"Out  in  the  dreary  anvi  pitiless  street, 

With  luy  torn  old  shoos,  and  mj'  bare  cold  feet, 

All  day  I  have  wandcM-ed  to  and  fro, 

Hungry  and  shivering,  nowhere  to  go. 

The  night's  coming  down  in  darkness  and  dread, 

And  tliu  cold  sleet  is  beating  upon  my  poor  head. 


"  nobody's  child."  123 

Ah  !  why  docs  tli(?  wind  rush  iibout  me  so  wild  ? 
Is  it  because  I  am  Nobody's  Cliild  ;"' 

Miss  Rice  listens,  surprised  .'ind  deliglited.  And 
IMrs.  Abbott,  just  outside  the  o|)oij  window,  listens  too, 
and  mentally  decides  that  GeolYrey  was  right.  This 
girl  is  worth  saving,  if  only  forsake  of  that  charming 
voice.  She  sings  with  expression,  the  [)athos  of  the 
words  find  an  echo  in  her  untaught  heart.  She,  too, 
is  Nobody's  Child. 

"  Oh,  you  have  a  lovely  voice,  indeed  !"  cries  little 
INIiss  Rice,  enthusiastically,  "and  after  a  few  montlis 
training — ah,  well,  only  wait  !  That  will  do  now  ;  we 
will    see  what   else    you    know,    and    get   out    a   few 


books. 


?> 


The  "  what  else"  turns  out  to  be  nothing  at  all. 
She  can  read  with  toleral)le  correctness,  and  write  a 
little.  She  cannot  sew,  knit,  crochet — knows  nothing, 
in  fact. 

"  It  is  virgin  soil,"  says  Miss  Rice,  briskly,  to  her 
patroness;  "plenty  of  weeds,  and  no  cultivation. 
Well,  we  must  plucK  up  the  weeds,  and  plant  the  seeds 


of  knowledge.     Good-day,  my  dear  lady." 

Miss  Rice  trips  au'ay,  and  Joanna  more  slowly  fol- 
lows. She  passes  the  Gothic  lodge,  and  is  well  out  of 
sight  of  that  neat  little  structure,  when  the  master  of 
Abbott  Wood  comes  suddenly  upon  her,  and  stretch- 
ing out  his  brawny  right  hand,  catches  her  by  the 
wrist.     He  has  been  Ivinjjf  in  wait. 


(( 


You  are  Joanna  Sleaford  ?" 


She  jerks  away  her  hand.     Roughness  is  the  atmos- 
phere of  her  life,  and  impish  Joanna  is  Joanna  at  once. 


(( 


No,  I 


ain  t 


n  » 


(( 


Who  are  you,  then  ?     Don't  tell  me  lies  !" 


|! 


i 


»L  »l 


'ij 

■ 

iflPf' 

i 

p 

124 


*'  nobody's  child." 


»> 


"  Don't  yon  tell  tliom  !     T  am  Sloaford'H  Joanna." 

"  What  d'yo  lucaii  ?     It's  (ho  saino  thing." 

"  Oh,  no 'taint.     JNIy  iiaiuo  ain't  Sleai'ord,  mister. 
All  Joanna's  usual  j)ei*tnoss  is  in  her  elfish  tone  and 
faco. 

"  What  is  It,  then?" 

"Don't  know,  and  don't  care.     Sleaford's  Joanna 
does  as  uood  as  anvthinoj  else." 

She   begins   to  whistle — then  breaks  off  to  laugh 
shrilly. 

"  You'll  know  me  next  time  for  certain.     What  are 
you    starin'   at?     It   ain't  good    manners,  old  gentle- 


man. 


To  tell  the  truth,  he  is  staring  as  Joanna  has  never 
been  stared  at  before  in  lier  life,  a  blank  expression  of 
new-born  consternation  in  iiis  faco. 

"Little  girl,"  lie  says,  "I  am  Mr.  Abbott,  and  I 
M'ant  you  to  answer  me  a  few  questions.  Who  are  you, 
if  you  are  not  Sleaford's  daughter?" 

"Told  you  before  I  didn't  know.  I  don't  tell  lies. 
You  knightn't  think  so,  but  I  don't.  It's  sneaky. 
Picked  me  up  in  a  gutter,  he  says.  Wish  he'd  left  me 
there.     Gutter's  better  than  his  house  any  day." 

"  How  old  are  you  ?" 

"Jest  gone  twelve." 

"  Do  you  remember  nothing  of  the  time  before 
you  lived  with  Sleaford  ?  Nothing  of  your  father  or 
mother  ?" 

"  Never.  Had  none,  maybe.  Grew  in  the  gutter, 
I  guess.  Say,  mister,  it's  getting  late.  I  want  to  go 
home." 

"  Go,  then,"  he  says,  mechanically. 

He  draws  back,  and  she  darts  off  fleetly  as  a  squir- 


■<-<•   r'lmtlW 


\n 


WHAT  THE   YEAIIS    MAKE   OF   JOANNA       125 

rol.  IIo  stands  and  watclic's  lier  out  of  siglit,  tliat 
blank  expression  still  on  his  lace. 

"Of  all  that  could  happen  I  never  thoupjhtof  that," 
h<3  mutters.  "  I  never  thought  Black  Giles  was  so 
deej).  No,  I  thougjjt  of  everything,  but  I'm  blessed 
if  I  ever  thought  of  t/i((f." 

She  has  disaj)peared,  and  the  dinner-bell  is  sum- 
moning the  master  of  the  house.  He;  turns  up  the 
avenue,  but  all  that  day,  and  for  many  days  aftei", 
John  Abbott  muses  and  mus<.'s,  and  is  strangely  silent 
and  still. 

And  so  it  comes  to  pass,  that  from  that  day  a  nti*/ 
life  besrins  for  Sleaford's  Joanna. 


PART    SECOND. 


m 


!i'i 


.  (.       ) 


CHAPTER    I. 

WHAT  THE   YEARS   MAKE   OF  JOANNA. 

rr  is  a  December  afternoon,  and  brightly, 
crisply  clear.  The  last  yellow  light  of  the 
wintry  sunset,  shining  in  between  parted 
curtains  of  lace  and  heavy  crimson  drap- 
ery, falls  upon  a  young  girl  seated  at  a  grand  {)iano, 
touching  the  keys  with  flexible,  strong  fingers,  and 
singing  in  a  full,  rich  contralto,  that  makes  every- 
tbinnr  in  the  room  vibrate.  It  is  the  winter  drawing- 
room  of  Abbott  Wood,  a  spacious  and  splendid  apart 


;,"r 


,1 

1  . 

i 

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1 

f    .' 

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11^ 

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H 

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m 

126     WHAT  TIIK   YEARS   MAKE   OF  JOANNA.. 

rtient,  vast  anrl  lofty,  but  the  trained,  powerfu  voice 
fills  it  easily.  She  is  singing  exei'cises  and  solfej^'gios  ; 
she  has  been  so  practicing  for  tlie  past  hour,  running 
up  in  showers  of  silvery  high  noles,  holding  ll.\e  liigh- 
CHt,  sotnetinies,  so  long  an<l  steadily  that  you  gas])ed 
from  sympathy,  and  then  running  down  the  scale 
until  the  last  low,  sweet  tone  melted  into  the  chords 
her  fingers  struck.  The  girl  is  young — seventeen — 
tall,  slight,  a  little  angular  at  present,  but  ])romising 
well  for  the  future.  She  is  dressed  in  a  black  alpaca 
that  has  seen  service,  and  which  is  neither  ]:'articularly 
neat  nor  well-fitting — a  rusty  garment,  that  looks  dis- 
tinctly out  of  place  in  that  glowing  room.  Her  hair, 
of  which  she  has  a  profusion,  and  which  is  red-brown 
in  hue,  but;  more  red  than  brown,  is  knotted  up  in  a 
loose  and  careless  knot,  without  the  slightest  attempt 
at  the  becoming.  Her  face  is  pale  and  thin,  the  fea- 
tures good,  but  the  expression  set  and  severe  for 
seventeen. 

"  What  a  peculiar-looking  girl  I"  people  say  of  her 
when  they  see  her  first,  and  are  apt  to  look  again  with 
some  curiosity.  "  She  is  not  pretty  at  all,  but  it  is 
rather  a — a  striking  face,"  and  the  word  describes  it 
very  well.  It  is  not  pretty  ;  it  is  far  from  plain  ;  and 
it  is  a  face  most  people  are  apt  to  look  at  more  than 
once.  It  is  what  five  years  have  made  of  Sleaford's 
Joanna. 

Five  years  !  They  work  changes  from  twelve  to 
seventeen  ;  this  is  what  five  years,  much  care,  instruc- 
tion, and  painstaking  on  the  part  of  good  Miss  Rice 
have  made  Joanna.  A  slim  young  person,  with  a  face 
that  seldom  smiles  ;  an  unlimited  capacity  for  discon- 
tent with  her  own  life,  that  increases  every  day  oi 


L 


rmnmiWULLLlUmJ  ..'AiUlM 


WHAT  tup:  ykaks  make  of  Joanna.    127 

that  life  ;  an  utter  apatliy  as  to  dress,  tidiness,  needlc' 
work  ;  a  conviction  that  she  is  hopelessly  u.qjly,  and 
that  it  is  of  no  use  wasting  time  trying  to  redeem  that 
ugliness;  a  delicious  voice,  a  tolerable  amount  of  pro- 
ficiency as  a  pianist — that  is  Joanna. 

She  sits  alone.  Voices  and  laughter — young 
voices — reach  her  from  the  grounds  ;  onco  her  name 
is  called,  but  she  pays  no  heed.  A  gay  group  are  out 
there,  enjoying  the  windless  winter  evening,  but  with 
gayety  this  girl  has  little — has  ever  had  little — to  do. 
TI7/</ Joainia  she  can  be  called  no  longer;  she  seems 
quiet  enough  ;  Sleafoid's  Joanna  she  is  still — the 
Ijousehold  drudgt»,  even  as  she  was  five  years  ago,  with 
Avork-reddened,  work-hardened  hands.  She  grows 
tired  of  exercises  after  a  little,  and  begins,  almost  un- 
consciously, to  sing  snatclu's  of  songs — English,  Ger- 
man, Italian — a  very  pot-pourri.  Then,  all  at  once,  she 
sti'ikes  a  few  solemn,  resounding  chords,  and  begins 
Rossini's  " Stabat  JMater,"  and  the  instrument  quivers 
with  force  of  those  grand  tones — 

"  Cujus  animum  gcmentum  !" 

It  is  a  glorious  anthem,  sung  with  passion,  pathos,  and 
power. 

"  Bravo  !"  says  a  voice  ;  "encore,  mademoiselle.  If 
I  had  a  bouquet  I  would  throw  it." 

She  glances  round  and  smiles,  and  when  she  smiles 
you  discover  for  the  first  time  that  this  girl  might  be 
almost  handsome  if  she  chose.  For  she  has  a  rare 
smile,  that  quite  transforms  her  sallow,  moody  face. 
She  has  very  fine  teeth,  too,  not  in  the  least  like  pearls, 
but  fully  equal  to  those  beautiful  enameled  half  circles 
that  grin  at  you  from  dental  show-cases. 


\ 


} 


k 


ij      !! 


J.1 


I 


i'i 


r* 


■>i- 


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I 


1:1 


li  ^i'i' 


i  •  1 

fi  iH'[ ;  I 

fit 


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U  '■ 


J. 
III! 

I,  is! 


f  i 


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I;, 


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ill 


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if 

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1, 

128     WHAT  THE   YEAKS   MAKK   OF  JOANXA. 

"Sing  '  Wlien  Swallows  IJuild,' Joanna,"  says  tlie 
new-comer,  throwing  liinisclf  on  a  sul'a  noar,  and  look- 
ing at  lior  wilii  kindly  oycs. 

It  is  GeolTrcy  J^atnar  down  for  the  Clirislmas  fos- 
tivitics — (TcolTioy  at  twrnty-one,  not  so  very  niucdi 
unliko  tl)c  Gt'olFroy  of  (sixteen.  Grown  taller,  though 
still  not  tall,  looking  strong  and  well-traine<l,  both  us 
to  nmsclo  and  mind,  retaining  that  resolute  moutli  and 
chin,  retaining  also  that  slightly  haughty  air,  and  those 
deep-set,  steadfast,  sea-gray  eyes,  lie  retains  (nery- 
tliing,  even  that  pleasant  friendly  regard  for  Sleaford's 
Joanna,  to  whieh  she  is  indebted  for  her  power  to-tlay 
to  make  the  room  ring  with  the  ''Stabat  JMater." 

She  turns  over  the  music,  and  linds  the  song. 
"What  have  you  done  with  the  others?"  she  asks, 
carelessly. 

"  Oh  !  Livingston  is  tliere,  and  where  girls  are  con- 
cerned he  is  always  a  host  in  himself.  There  were  a 
great  many  pretty  i)eople  present  at  the  Ventnors'  last 
night,"  says  Geoffrey,  laughing,  "  but  Frank  was  the 
belle  of  the  ball.  Do  you  want  me  to  turn  your 
music,  Joanna?  Because,  if  you  do,  I  will  sacritico 
comfort  to  })oliteness  and  get  up." 

"No,  don't  trouble  yourself,"  Joanna  answers. 
"As  you  work  so  hard  all  the  rest  of  the  year,  I  sup- 
pose you  claim  the  right  to  be  lazy  at  Christmas. 
And  besides,  I  am  not  used  to  politeness." 

"  No  ?"  says  Geoffrey,  and  looks  at  her  thought- 
fully ;  "it  strikes  me  you  seem  a  trifle  out  of  sorts  of 
late,  Joanna.  You  are  as  thin  as  a  shadow  and  nearly 
as  mute.  Tell  me — is  it  the  old  trouble?  Do  tliese 
people  treat  you  badly  still  ?" 

She  shrugs  her  shoulders,  an  impatient,  ireful  look 


WHAT   TlIK    YKAltS    MAKK   OF   .JOANNA.      129 

darkens  her  f.aco.  "  Wli.it  docs  it,  matter,"  hIic  saya, 
in  .1  voice  of  irritated  weariness.  "I  ought  to  he  used 
to  it  by  this,  hut  tlio  trouhh^  with  me  is,  I  get  use(l  to 
nothing.  Do  not  mind  my  h)oi<s — I  am  always  thin 
and  cross — it  is  natural,  I  suj>))()se  ;  and  as  to  being 
mute,  when  one  has  notliing  pleasant  to  say  one  had 
best  liohl  one's  tongue.  Every  one  is  good  to  me  here, 
better  than  I  deserve.     'I'hat  ought  to  sulHce." 

Slie  begins  her  song,  but  th(,>  impatient  ring  is  yet 
in  her  voice.  GeolTrey  lies  still  and  watches  her.  lie 
has  tlie  interest  in  her  we  all  have  in  the  thing  wo 
have  saved  and  protected  ;  he  would  like  to  see  her 
repay  that  interest  by  blooming  looks  and  l)right 
laughter  ;  but  his  power  fails,  something  is  jimiss. 
She  is  C'lucated,  relined,  cared  for,  but  she  is  not 
happy — he  has  a  vague,  uneasy  sus|)i(rion  she  is  not 
particularly  (food.  Antagonistic  iuHuences  are  at 
work,  driving  her  two  ways  at  once — here  all  is  lux- 
ury, refinement,  high-breeding,  tender  care — there  all 
is  coarseness,  vulgarity,  brutal  usage.  Long  ago  Giles 
S'eaford  was  implored  to  give  her  up  altogether,  but 
he  obstinately  and  doggedly  refused. 

"She  is  not  your  daughter,"  Geoffrey  has  urged. 
"You  do  not  care  for  her.  Give  her  to  us.  She  is 
none  of  yours." 

"  How  d'ye  know  that,  youngster?"  Sleaford  says, 
a  cunning  look  in  his  bleary  eyes.  "  I  never  said  so, 
an'  I'm  the  oidy  one  as  knows." 

"  Well,  if  she  is,  then,  you  should  have  her  welfare 
at  heart.  Let  her  come  to  us  for  good  and  all.  She 
is  attached  to  my  inother,  and  would  like  it." 

"  Ah  !  I  dare  say  !  She's  a  lazy  jade,  an'  would  like 
to  be  a  tine  lady,  with  uothin'  to  do   but  play  the 
6* 


I 


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1. 


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i 


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wi^m 


m 


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m 


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■i 

i 

' 

1 

s 

5 

■  i 

bi 

I'JO     WHAT  THE   YKAKS    MAKE   OF   JOANNA. 

pianny  and  sliicr  soncfs.  IJiit  it  won't  flo,  yonng  pjcnt. 
I  don't  SCO  it  no  way.    I  ain't  jj^oin'to  give  np  Joanna." 

"  It'  money  is  any  inducement "  l)eu;inH  (Jeoffrey 

after  a  pause.  lie  is  exceed in<jfly  tenacious  ol"  purpose 
— l)e  bates  to  give  up  anything  on  which  he  has  once 
set  his  mind. 

"Look  a  liere,  young  gentleman,"  says  Giles  Slca- 
ford  ;  "  I  ain't  got  no  sj>ile  agin  you.  You're  a  gaine 
young  rooster,  and  I  respects  yer.  J]ut  let  this  here 
come  to  an  end.  I  won't  give  up  Joanna  to  you  or  no 
living  man.  That  gal's  the  trump  card  in  my  hand, 
though  the  time  ain't  con\e  to  play  her  yet.  She  may 
keep  on  goin'  to  your  'ouse — I've  said  so,  and  I'll  stick 
to  it — but  back  here  she  comes,  rain  or  shine,  every 
night  for  life.     Now  drop  it  !" 

And  so,  night  after  night,  Joanna  turns  from  the 
beauty  and  grandeur  of  Abl)ott  Wood  to  tlie  bleak 
ugliness  and  disorder  of  the  Red  Farm  ;  from  good- 
natured  Miss  Rice  to  scolding  Liz,  or  sneering  Lora  ; 
from  the  stately  kindness  of  Mrs.  Abbott  to  the  im- 
precations of  Black  Giles  ;  from  the  melodies  of 
Chopin  and  Schubert  to  the  grimy  kitchen  labor,  the 
wash-board  and  scrubbing-brush  of  Sleaford's.  It  is 
an  abnormal  life,  two  existences,  glaringly  wide  apart, 
and  the  girl  is  simply  being  ruined  between  them. 

"  Ah  !  that  is  fine,"  says  a  second  voice,  and  a 
second  face  appears  at  the  open  window.  "My  word 
of  honor,  Joanna,  you  have  a  voice  !  Sing  us  some- 
thing else." 

She  starts  a  little,  and  something — it  is  so  faint 
you  can  hardly  call  it  color — flashes  into  her  face.  She 
does  not  glance  round,  her  fingers  strike  a  disco' dant 
chord,  she  stops  confusedly,  her  head  droops  a  little 


w  ■■  vmsmi!«siiesisss 


WHAT   TIIK   YKAUS    MAKE   OF   JOANNA.      131 


ll 


"  IIdw  like  the  Grand  Tuik,  surveying  his  favorite 
Sultana,  Lauiar  looks!"  gous  on,  sarcastically,  tlii* 
voico  ;  "strctcliod  out  there,  drinking  in  all  this  mel- 
ody. Luxurious  sybarite,  bid  the  Light  ol"  the  Harem 
sing  us  another  ISho  pays  no  attention  to  my  del\'r- 
ential  request." 

But  before  Lamar  can  obey,  Joanna  has  begun 
again.  Without  notes  this  time,  some  subtile  chord  of 
meuujry  awakened,  she  sings  a  song  siic  has  iiuti 
tliought  of  for  years,  the  first  she  ever  sung  in  this 
house — Nobody's  Child. 

There  is  a  pause.  The  trite  saying  of  "  tears  in 
the  voice "  comes  to  the  mind  of  Geolfre}' — j»ain, 
patjios,  passion,  are  in  the  sim[)le  words.  IShe  feels 
them — oh  !  slie  feels  them  to  the  very  depths  of  her 
sold.  Nameless,  homeless,  pare!itless,  a  waif  and 
stray,  a  castaway  of  the  city  streets — nothing  more. 
All  the  kind  charity,  the  friendly  good-nature  of  these 
ricli  people,  cannot  alter  that. 

As  she  sings  the  last  words,  two  young  girls,  who 
have  been  lingering  in  the  door-w-ay,  unwilling  to  ilis- 
turb  the  music,  enter.  A  greater  contrast  to  the 
words  she  has  been  singing,  to  the  singer  herself,  can 
hardly  be  imagined.  They  arc  heiresses,  both  ;  they 
have  everything  this  girl  has  not — name,  lineage, 
wealth,  beauty,  love.  They  are  Olga  Venlnor  and 
Leo  Abbott. 

Tiiey  advance.  Leo's  arm  is  around  Olga's  waist ; 
she  is  one  of  the  clinging,  affectionate  sort  of  little 
people,  as  addicted  to  caresses  as  to  bonbons.  She 
hardly  comes  up  to  Olga's  shoulder,  though  but  a  year 
younger.  She  is  a  pretty  little  brunette  of  fifteen, 
plump,    pale,   dark-eyed,  dark-haired,  dressed   in   i\\e 


'I 


i 


(i  I 


■!!'    i  !  i 


^  in 


11 


132     WHAT   TIIK    YIAKS    MAKK   OF   .JOANNA. 

cla'mtifst  ami  brightest  of  costumes.  She  worships 
Olga,  iintl  h)()lvs  up  to  lier ;  she  is  her  ideal,  iiuniensely 
wiser,  and  tnor<!  grown  up  than  iiersell' — her  superior 
in  every  way. 

Miss  Olga  Vent  nor,  at  sixteen,  is  certainly  a  very 
fair  young  lady.  Tall,  slight,  erect,  graeel'ul,  the 
(lelieate  head  proudly  poisi-d,  and  "smniing  ovor  willi 
curls,"  still  worn  girlish  fashion,  hxtse  on  her  shoulders, 
the  "flower  lace"  (piite  without  flaw,  a  little  proud, 
perhaps,  hut  very,  very  hnely.  The  eyes  are  nioro 
purple  than  hUw. — "  j)ansy  eyes  "  a  stricken  youth  of 
eighteen  has  been  known  to  call  them — a  thought  cold 
in  expression,  but  rarely  beautiful.  She  is  dressed  in 
pale  gray  silk,  very  siin)»ly  made,  and  trimmed  with 
garnet  velvet,  a  ribbon  of  the  same  color  tying  back 
her  j)r()fuse  blonde  hair — no  rings,  brooches,  bracelets, 
jewelry  of  any  kind,  yet  looking,  from  top  to  toe,  the 
superb  princess  her  Cousin  Fraidc  calls  her. 

It  is  the  said  Cousiri  Frank  who  stands  at  tlie 
window.  He  saunters  in  now,  and  wdiat  the  years 
have  done  for  him  is  to  transform  an  extr  meiy  good- 
looking  youth  of  seventeen  into  a'l  extremely  hand- 
some young  man  of  twenty-two,  with  a  most  desirable 
light  mustache,  quick,  restless  blue  eyes,  a  vivacious 
society  manner,  and  a  pensive  way  of  looking  at  young 
ladies,  and  bending  over  tliem,  and  holding  their  fans 
and  quoting  Doetry  at  them,  that  even  at  two-and 
twenty  he  has  found  very  effective.  That  Mr.  Frank 
is  a  flirt  of  the  most  pronounced  male  order,  nnd  has 
been  consumed  by  four  grand  passions  already,  is  a 
matter  of  history,  lie  has  a  studio  on  Broadway,  and 
paints  young  ladies'  heads  very  prettily.  He  is  also 
celebrated  as  the  best  leader  of  Geimans  in  the  city, 


I 


WHAT  riiK  yi:aus  makk  of  jo  a  NX  a.     \'SA 

and,  iiisliort,  is  jui  ornivmi'iif  and  acfjiiisiliou  to  society. 
Ho,  too,  is  down  lor  the  Christinas  IVstivilics,  and  to 
make  liinist'If  agroeabiu  to  liis  Cousin  Oli^a,  iionio 
from  sciiool.  lit'o  does  not  go  to  school — inaslcrsj  and 
Miss  llicc  fuse  knowltMlgc  into  licr  ;it  home. 

"  Why  do  yon  sing  that,  Jo  ?"  Leo  says,  (jnitling 
l»cr  friend,  and  pulting  that  caressing  right  arm 
around  the  pianist  instead.  "  It  is  a  melatieholy  littlo 
thing,  and  wc  don't  want  mehmuholy  litlU;  things  this 
lia))|)y  Cinistmas  time.      Do  not  sing  it  any  more." 

She  touches  ti)u  untidy  reihlisli  hair  with  a  geiitlo 
touch.  She  is  a  loving  litth*  heart,  and  she  is  very 
Borry  for  this  poor  Joanna,  wiio  has  such  a  hard  life, 
and  such  disagreeable  relations.  It  comes  naturally 
to  lier  to  love  all  by  whom  she  is  surrounded,  to  be 
generous,  and  unseltisii,  and  impulsive,  and  without  a 
j)article  of  pride.  In  this  last,  she  is  (piile  unlike 
mother,  brother,  and  bosom  friend.  Miss  Vent  nor 
glances  across,  but  does  not  go  near  the  piano.  She 
crosses  to  a  distant  window  instead,  and  Geoffrey 
Lamar  gets  la/ily  u})  from  his  recumbent  position,  and 
joins  her. 

''  It  will  certainly  snow  to-morrow,"  the  young 
lady  says,  looking  up  with  those  great,  "pansy  eyes" 
at  the  twilight  sky.  "  I  am  very  glad.  A  green  yulo 
— yoti  know  the  proverb.  Christmas  without  snow 
and  sleigh-bells — nature  could  not  make  a  greater  mis- 
take." 

"  What  lovely  eyes  !"  Gooff rey  Lamar  thinks. 

He  has  thought  so  often  before,  but  each  time  they 
meet  after  a  few  months'  separation,  this  girl's  beauty 
strikes  him  with  the  force  of  a  new  revelation.  He 
looks  across  at  Frank  Livingston,  devoting  himself  to 


'  N 


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I  ' 


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M  II 


134    WHAT  THE  years  make  of  joanna. 


ti  % 


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1 


little  l;iu<rliiiio-  Leo,  witli  that  ejiipresacrnent  lie  considers 
this  sort  ol"  ihiiii^  needs,  a»i<l  his  slraij^ht  strong  eye- 
brows contract,  'i'he  sa|»j»liire  eyes  may  be  never  so 
bright,  but  they  are  l)e^]toUen. 

Other  eyes,  bhick  and  somber,  watch  covertly 
Frank's  llirtation.  Leo  is  a  little  girl,  he  cares  nothing 
about  her,  he  is  merely  kee[)!ng  his  hand  in,  it  is  never 
well  to  get  out  of  practice,  but  he  looks  at  the  same 
time  as  ii"  ^Miss  Abbott  were  the  only  creature  of  her 
sex  in  the  ur.i verse. 

"  Do  look  at  Joanna,"  Olga  says  ;  "  what  a  <lark 
and  ano'rv  fa(u»." 

"Truly,"  (TCoiYrey  utters,  in  some  surprise. 

lier  face  iloes  look  dark,  angry,  menacing  ;  slie 
strikes  the  chords  of  the  piano  as  though  it  were  an 
enemy's  face. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  her?  A  moment  ago 
she  \vas  all  right.  iShe  is  an  odd  girl — a  girl  of  moods 
and  whims," 


"  A  girl  I  <]o  not  like,"  Olga  Ventnor  says,  with  a 
very  decided  uplifting  of  the  head  ;  "a  girl  I  fear  and 
distrust.  I  worider  how  you  all  can  make  so  much  of 
her,  Geoffrey — can  think  so  well  of  her.  1  do  not  wish 
to  injure  her,  but  I  could  never  like  her,  or  treat  her 


a^   Leo  does.     Not  that   there   h 


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that, 


11 


she 


5> 


adds,  laughing,  "dear  little  Leo  loves  all  the  world.'' 
"You   do    not    like    her — you   do    not    trust    hei 
Geoffrey  repeats  ;  "now  why,  I  wonder!     If  it  is  be- 
cause of  your  Hrst  meeting " 


(i 


T/uit  was  nothing,"  Olga  sava,  in  the  same  quick, 


decided  tone. 


I   have  foro-otten  and    for<>;iven  that 


long  ago.     She  was  only  a  wild,  half-savage  child  then. 
It  is  now  I  do  not  trust  her.     She  is  quiet,  she  says 


WHAT  TIIl^    YEARS    MARK   OF   JOANNA.      11^5 

liltlo,  slic!  is  attru-icd  to  your  niothci',  slio  likes  Leo  a 
little,  st)e  stiulu/  hard,  she  sings  well,  she  keeps  her 
place,  but '' 

"Well,"  1)0  'uys,  smiling,  "go  on.  What  a  wise- 
acre yon  .i?o  l»'  .•coming.     JIiil " 

ll'j  like.''  'y^  hear  her  talk,  to  he  with  lici",  to  look  in 
those  (le':'l>  }Mn-j)le  eyes,  to  meet  that  I'adiant  smile. 
She  is  a  Nv/ntiTnl  creature,  so  hrightly  beautiful  that 
it  is  a  d<:('ght  only  to  look  at  her. 

"It  i»i  not  so  easy  to  ex|)lain  what  I  tnean.  You 
have  r'iad  of  men  who  tame  animals?  They  take  a 
young  tiger  and  feed  it  on  milk.  It  grows  up,  gentle, 
sleek,  pl.iyful  as  a  kitten.  One  day  they  give  it  i"aw 
meat,  the  next  it  turns  on  its  keeper,  without  warning 
or  provocation,  iind  tears  him  to  pieces.  Joanna  is 
like  that  tiger — to  be  trusted  no  more  than  the  tiger. 
You  look  shocked,  I  cannot  help  it.  I  know  sin;  is 
your  pi'ofef/ec,  and  that  you  are  bound  to  defend  her, 
but  it  is  the  truth  all  the  same.  I  do  not  know  it,  I 
feel  it.  And  one  day  vou  will  see.  Now,  do  not  let 
us  talk  about  her.  What  are  you  doing  in  town? 
Walking  the  hospitals?  How  dreadful!  What  do 
you  want,  studying  juedicine  ?  As  if  you  ever  meant 
to  practice  !  Being  a  'Saw-bones,'  a  'Hob  Sawyer  !'" 
8lu-  laughs,  the  clear  girlish  laugh  that  is  sweeter  than 
all  Joamia's  music  to  his  ears.  "  I  like  Bob  Sawyer, 
but  at  the  same  time  there  is  no  sense  in  your  follow- 
ing his  foot-steps.  You  know  you  never  mean  to  be  a 
doctor." 

"  Indeed,  that  is  precisely  what  T  do  mean  ;  what  I 
hope,  what  I  am  positively  sure  I  shall  be  this  time 
next  year.  Let  me  write  M.  D.  after  my  name,  and  I 
die  happy." 


,  • 

ii  Or 

''  ^W 

t 


i 


m 


['      ! 


'      i 

!       ! 


i;?C     WHAT   TIIK   YKAIIS    MAKK    OK   ,F()AN?^A. 

"  Von  will  ncvor  bo  ;i  doctor,"  (lio  yomiijj  lady  I'O 
peals,  in  Ii(>r  dcciilctl  way  ;  slio  is  used  to  having 
ojiinious  of  her  own,  ami  liaviMjx  tlicin  li.-^l'.'ncd  lo  w  illi 
r{'s|MH't  ;  "tlial  is  lo  say,  a  j)im;-i  iciiiL!;  doi'tor.  It,  in 
your  wliiiM,  \^)uv  h(>\A>\\  and  a  vcrv  horrid  one,  I 
(hinU.  \Vli;it  drcadrni  sijjfhls  yon  nuisl  soo,  what 
shocking- sniVc'iinLT,  what  iViijjIit  fnl  disca.si'.'" 

"  Vcs,"'  h(>  answers,  mavcly,  "(iod  knows  T  do — 
siixhts,  sn(Tc'i-in:jf,  1  pray  yon  may  never  dreanj  of. 
lint,  to  anieiiorati^  all  that,  to  h.eal  the  snlTerinu",  to 
i»ive  health  to  dis(>asv\  lo  soothe  pain,  is  not  that  a 
godlike  mission,  ()l_;a  ?" 

"To  those  to  whom  llu'  siuhl  and  sniTerinsj^  nro 
necessary — yes—U)  yon,  no.  One  niHMl  not  wiliu^ss 
th(>  misery  of  (Mhers  in  ordi-r  lo  alh>viate  it.  Von  arc 
j>()in!jf  \o  ho  V(Mv  rich  ;  yon  will  not  work  as  a  doctor. 
There  avc  i-nongh  wilhont  yon,  antl  they  need  it  more 
than  you  kIo.'^ 

lie  smiles  at  her,  at  the  fair,  earnest,  j)roihl  young 
face. 

'*  Yon  talk  like  my  mother.  What  a  wise  lilllo 
lady  you  aie,  princess  !      If  I  ihouirht  i/on  eoidd  really 

take  an  int(>rest  in  the  matter "  he  stops,  the  color 

coming'  into  his  fa(\>. 

"  1  take  an  interest  in  all  mv  friends,"  Miss  Vent- 
nor  savs,  with  uri';U  calm.  "  I'^rank,  are  we  cfoinu 
home  to  dinnei\  or  are  wi'  not?  In-canso  I  believe  we 
promised  mamma " 

T/ivin<>ston    needs    no    second    bidilincf.     IL 


e    nsoa 


with  alacrity,  and  is  at  her  side  in  an  instant.  Tlalf 
an  hoiir  of  Leo  has  bored  him  ;  the  art  of  llirtation  is 
one  o\'  the  h^st  arts,  so  far  as  she  is  concerned,  and 
Lamar  has  monopolized  Olga  long  enough. 


WHAT  TIFK    YKAKS    MAKIO   OF   JOANXA.      137 


"1  am  so  sorry  yon  must  ljo/' LtM)  says,  plaintively, 
*'bijt.  !is  youi"  inaiMina.  is  ill,  and  yon  liuvc  lo  take  Ikt 
])Iacc',  Olu^a,  I  suppose  y(»n  must.  (lood-hy,  dear.  \>o 
sure  you  eonie  early  lo-niorrow  evening." 

For  lo-nu)rro\v  is  Ijco's  birthday,  ;iu<l  there  is  to 
l)c>  ;i  ijjalherinsjf  of  th(>  clans  and  a  dance. 

'J'iu^  four  stand  together,  a  cliarininiij  jj;roup  of 
younjj^  hea<ls  and  fair  faces.  The  fifth  looks  at  them, 
and  holds  jierself  aloof.  She  is  as  jonnjjj  as  they,  s1h» 
niiufht  he  as  fair  under  other  cireuinstaiu'es,  hut  siie  is 
not.  of  them  ;  unlike  them,  she  has  not  s|(oken  a  word, 
slu>  has  jilayiMJ  (Ui  steadily,  no  one  knows  what.  'l'li<'y 
hear  the  piano,  they  see  tlu^  performer,  and  one  is 
nearly  as  much  to  ihem  as  the  other.  'Tlicy  ai"e  k'litl 
to  her — yes,  polite  to  her  always,  and  ther(>  arc^  times 
when  she  would  rather  tlu>y  struck  her.  She  is  Slea- 
ford's  Joanna — they  are  of  the  <jolden  youth  of  the 
earth,  welUhorn,  hinjli-hred.  Heaven  and  earth  aro 
iu)t  farther  apart  than  they. 

GeolTrey  and    Leo  go  out  willi  their  guests.     The 
windless,    mihl     December   twilight,    gray    and    star 
8tU(bled,  is  beautiful,  as  tiiey  saunter  to  the  gate. 

"AndOlga  predicts  snow,"  says   GeolTrey,  laugh 
ing,  "  in  the  face  of  that  sky." 

"If  she  predicts  it  you  may  ])o  sure  it  will  come," 
says  Frank.  "The  elements  themselves  dare  not  op- 
pose the  imperial  will  of  the  l*rincess  Olga  !" 

"  Look  at  the  new  moon  !"  cries  Leo,  "  and  wish. 
What  are  you  wishing  for,  Geoff? — what  do  you  wish 
for,  Olga  ?  I  wisli  for  a  snow-storm  to-morrow,  and 
then  a  lovely  night." 

They  all  look.     What  do  they  all  wish  for  ?     Geof 
frey's  eyes  rest  on  Olga,  before   .ic  looks  at  the  sky. 


l\       I      f: 


53. 1 


!  1  i  ; 


I    I 


;!<   ! 


i:   :!t 


I; 

'i 

1 1 


ii! 


•        ,1      : 

■'      't 

:    i 

III 

iL 

^li 

138      IN   WTTTCII   JOANNA    ENTERS    SOCIErY. 


!U 


His  wisli  iiiiglit  be  rorifl,  if  there  wore  eyes  to  read  it. 
Olga  looks  up  too — for  wiiat  does  beautiful  Olga  Vent- 
no  r  wish  ? 

"  'I  Siiw  tlio  now  moon  liito  yes'trecn, 
Wi'  the  auld  moon  in  licr  nirms,'" 

slie  quotes.  "I  see  her  now.  Do  uot  come  any  frr- 
ther,  Leo,  in  your  bare  liead.  It  grows  chilly  ;  you 
may  catch  cold." 

So  they  part.  All  the  way  back  to  the  house  Leo 
chailers,  but  Geoffrey  is  silent. 

"We  have  left  Joanna  alone  all  this  time,"  slie 
says,  as  they  re-enter,  "  beg  pardon,  Jo,  but — wliy,  she 
has  gone  !" 

She  has  gone.  She  lias  risen  a  moment  after  they 
left,  taken  her  hat,  gone  out  of  a  side  door,  and  gone 
home.  The  grand  portico  entrance  is  not  for  her,  and 
the  home  she  goes  to  is  Sleaford's. 


♦•»■■ 


CIL\PTER    n. 


IN  WHICH  JOANNA    ENTERS   SOCIETY. 

AMMA,"  says  Leo  Abbott,  "  I  wonder  why 
papa  dislikes  Joanna  so  much  ?" 

They  make  a  pretty  picture,  mother 
and  daughter.  Mrs.  Abbott,  gracious 
and  handsome  as  ever,  sits  at  her  embroidery-frame, 
with  a  basket  of  silks,  and  tioss,  and  zephyr,  in  rain- 
bow sL'ades,  beside  her.  She  is  making  tapestry,  like 
a  mediaeval  countess  in  a  baronial   hall — a  huge  piece. 


IN   WHICH   JOANXA    ENTERS   SOCIETY.      139 

with  four  large  figures.  It  is  a  Scriptural  subject, 
"  Susauna  and  tlie  Elders,"  though  at  this  stage  of 
proceedings  it  is  not  so  easy  to  tell  which  is  Susanna, 
and  which  are  the  elders.  Leo  nestles  on  a  footstool 
at  her  feet.  She  is  one  of  the  caressing  sort,  who  al- 
ways nestle  on  footstools  and  cushions,  like  kittens, 
and  who  like  to  purr,  and  be  petted.  There  is  no 
afl'ectation  about  it — it  is  all  very  natural  and  very 
pretty  in  Leo. 

The  lady  looks  up  from  her  frame,  and  her  dark, 
large-li<lded  eyes  rest  on  her  daughter. 

"  Are  you  not  mistaken  ?"  she  says,  quietly.  "  Why 
should  your  ])api  dislike  Joanna?" 

"  Ah  !  why  indeed  ?  I  am  sure  I  do  not  know — I 
think  Joanna  charming.  All  the  same,  ])apa  dislikes 
her — more,  he  looks  sometimes  as  if  he  were  actually 
afraid  of  her  !" 

"  Afraid  !  my  child,  what  nonsense  you  talk." 

But  the  inflection  of  jMrs.  Abbott's  voice  as  she 
says  it  is  perfectly  calm — tln^  faintest  of  smiles  dawns 
about  her  mouth,  as  she  takes  a  fresh  needleful  of 
gold-colored  silk,  and  puts  a  long,  slanting  stitch  in 
Susajina's  back  hair.  As  if  anything  of  this  wonder- 
ful discovery  was  new  to  her  ! 

"  Well,  perhaps  it  is  nonsense,"  says  Leo,  resign- 
edly ;  "all  I  have  to  say,  mamma,  is,  you  watch  papa 
the  next  time  he  and  Joanna  meet,  and  see  for  your- 
self." 

Mrs.  Abbott's  amused  smile  deepens. 

"My  dear,"  she  remarks,  "I  will,  if  you  will  tell 
me  this — when  do  thev  ever  meet  ?" 

Leo  looks  up  at  her  with  puzzled  eyes — then  slowly 
a  light  breaks  upou  her. 


.1        ^!, 


•rlW 


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140      IN    WHICH   JO  A  NTT  A   ENTERS   SOCrKTY. 


tf  ^ 


"  Tliat  is  triu.',"  slio  says',  amnzodly  ;  "  tlicy  novcr  f!a 
moot.  I  have  iiovcr  seen  llioiu  in  a  room  tooctlior  in 
all  these  yoais  !     Now,  bow  is  tliat,  I  woiidor?" 

"  WatcJj  and  see,"  ivplios  ]\Ii's.  Abbott,  eiiigmali- 
cally,  takiii2^  sonic  bist(;r-bue(l  llosf^  tliis  tinio,  to  sliaile 
the  eldest  EldeFs  com]  lexion.  "  What  has  started  the 
subject  now  ?" 

"  Why,  this.  Halt'  an  hour  aofo,  after  I  left  Miss 
Rice,  and  before  Joanna  had  come,  |)apa  called  nie 
out  to  take  a  walk  with  hiin  in  the  grounds.  I  went, 
and  as  we  were  froinfj  down  the  laimi-nuni  walk,  Joanna 
came  up — she  generally  does  take  that  side  entrance. 
The  moment  papa  saw  her,  he  stopped  in  what  he  was 
sayin^i^,  looking  m  flurried,  you  cannot  think,  and  drew 
me  with  him  between  the  trees.  '  I  don't  want  to  meet 
thai  young  woman,'  he  said.  But,  mamma,  he  watched 
iier  out  of  sight  with  the  strangest  look!  It  was 
exactly  (only  that  is  absurd)  as  if  he  was  frightened 
— as  if  he  was  afraid  of  her P"* 

"Well,  my  dear,  you  do  iu)t  generally  stand  in  awe 
of  your  papa — why  did  you  not  ask  him  about  it?" 
says  mamma. 

"  Oh  !  I  said  :  '  Why,  papa,  what  is  the  matter  ? 
You  do  look  80  odiUy  !  You  are  not  afraid  of  our 
Joanna,  are  you?'  lie  grf.ve  me  such  a  look — as  cross 
as  he  can  look  at  me,  and  he  says  '  Afraid  !  that  be 
blowed  !  And  our  Joanna,  too  !  Who  made  her 
yours,  I  wonder  !  I  don't  like  her,  and  I  don't  like  to 
see  her  gadding  here.  She's  no  tit  chum  for  you — a 
gentleman's  daughter,  by  Jove  !'  " 

Leo  mimics  her  father's  blustering  voice  so  welli 
that  Mrs.  Abbott  has  to  laugh. 

"  Then  he  told  me  to  run  away  into  the  house,  and 


IN    WHICH   JOANXA    ENTERS   SOCIETY.       141 

went  off  bv  himself.  But  it  is  very  odd,  I  tliiiik.  I 
am  sure  Joiinua  has  the  maimer  of  a  lady — wiieii  she 
likes — and  is  good  enough  to  be  companion  to  any- 
body." 

"Ah!  when  she  likes!"  repeats  ]Mrs.  Abbott,  sig- 
nificantly. There  is  a  pause.  "  Your  friend,  Olga, 
seems  to  share  in  your  papa's  dislike,  Leo,"  she  says, 
Btill  absorbed  in  the  Elder's  leathery  complexion. 

"Yes,"  Leo  answers,  thoughtfully;  "Olga  does 
not  like  .Toanna,  and  there  is  not  much  love  lost,  I 
think.  Joanna,  mamma,"  laughs  Leo,  "could  be  one 
of  the  good  haters  old  Dr.  Johnson  liked,  if  she  chose. 
1  will  tell  you  though  who  does  like  her  more  than  his 
mother  would  quite  approve  of,  I  guess,  if  she  knew." 

"Who?"  demands  A[rs.  Abbott,  looking  startled, 
and  letting  the  "I  guess"  slip  in  the  excitement  of  the 
moment. 

"George  Blake — Miss  Rice's  nephew,  you  knovr. 
lie  comes  here  sometimes  with  Frank  to  play  croquet. 
lie  is  in  the  office  of  a  New  York  daily  paper,  and  is 
quite  clever,  they  say,  and  he  runs  down  here  once  or 
twice  a  week,  to  see  his  mother — he  saysP''  Leo 
laughs. 


(i 


You  think  it  is  not  to  see  his  mother?" 


"  I  think  it  is  to  see  Joanna.     You  always  send  our 
Perkins  home   with   her   when   she   is   here  late,    and 


Ge 


or  ire 


B 


1  >-~  ...,,  ,,1 .  - 


Luem,  and  takes  Jo  out  of  his 


hands.     Perkins  walks  behind  until   they  reach  Slea- 
ford's,  then  he  touches  his  hat,  says  *  good-night.  Mi 


ss  ' 


and  comes  home  and  tells  the  others.     And  then  I  have 
seen  him  watch  Jo  when  we  all  play  croquet." 

"It  seems  to  me  you  see  a  great  deal,  little  Leo,'* 
says  mamma,  reprovingly.    "Fifteen-year-old  eyes  and 


..4 ; , 

1   : 


I': 


iiiii; 


;  ,  ■ 


I; 


^'f 


1 12    IN  winrir  .toanxa  kxtkks  socikty. 

onvs  sliouM  iiol  1)0  (juiU'  so  sli;irp,  and  yoii  slionld 
never,  never  on  an)'  aeeount  luMiken  to  llu'  gossip  of 
Servants."' 

Miss  Leo  Mushes.  Her  nianinia  lias  nol  perniitled 
hov  to  read  many  novels,  she  has  seen  next  to  no 
'\uri>\vn-iii>  "■  society  at  all;  all  the  same  her  feminine 
soul  tells  her  (ieoi-ge  l»lake  is  a  victim  to  the  leiulor 
])assion,  and  eonsumed  with  love  (\>r  .loanna. 

"Does  this  (ieoi^(»  l>lakt'  make  mii<*h  money?"  in- 
quires Mrs.  Altholi,  nUvv  another  pause,  (h'sertiiig  tho 
]<^lder  and  ri'liirniiiix  to  Susanna,  her  mind  projecting 
itsolt'  into  tlu>  t'lUure  of  her  j)i'<)t(  i/e<\  After  all,  the 
young  man  might  make  a  very  good  husband  for  iho 
girl. 

"  I'^iftoen  dollars  a  week,"  respomls  Ta'o,  promptly, 
"and  he  pays  sevi'ii  o\\\  of  that  for  his  bo.ird  !  And  I 
don't  tliiiik  .loanna  would  make  a  good  housekeeper, 
or  manage  on  fifteen  dollars  a  wec^k.  And  hesidos, 
she  wouldn't  have  him." 

"  Mv  «h'ar  I"  savs  Ium*  motlior,  smiling  again. 

*'  Oh,  no,  she  wouldn't,  mamma,"  Leo  iterates  with 
conviction  ;  "  she  treats  him  with  the  gre  '.te?I  disdain, 
scolds  him  when  he  nnnMs  her,  and  sonu.  iir.es  makes 
liim  go  back.  But  he  meets  her  next  time  just  tho 
same.  I  wonder  what  Miss  Rice  would  say  ?  She  i« 
awfully  proud  of  (tcorge,  thinks  he  is  going  to  be  a 
Horace  CTi-eeiev  by  and  by " 

There  is  a  tap  at  the  door.  It  proves  to  be  Miss 
Rice  in  person,  wlio  wishes  to  know  if  Miss  Leo  will 
come  and  practice  that  duet  she  is  to  sing  to-night 
with  Joanna.  So  Leo  goes,  and  INfrs.  Abbott  takes 
another  strand  of  pale  gold  silk,  and  looks  at  Susanna's 
flowing  tresses  with  a  very  thoughtful  face. 


IN    WHICH    JOANNA    KNrKUS    SOClIiTY.       143 

She  tiiiiiks  (>r  .loanici  and  licr  liiisbaiid.  What 
Ti(M)  lias  (lis'-ovciiMl  to-day  I-)!'  tlit;  lirst  liiiKt  is  a  vciy 
old  slory  lo  Leo's  inotluT.  I(,  siii[(rist'd  licr  at,  lirsl, 
il,  |iu//,K'S  licr  si  ill,  but  she  docs  iioL  ohjcct  to  it — slio 
has  round  il  iisclul  in  more;  ways  lh:in  oiio.  Mr. 
Ald)oti,  in  words,  has  never,  since  tliat,  lirsl,  day, 
ul»jeeled  in  the  least  to  the  presences  of  (ieollVey's 
\vard,  as  they  call  her,  l»nt  in  acMion  he  has  (^hjecled 
to  her,  all  these  live  years,  as  strongly  as  man  can. 
llu  avoids  lier  as  he  nii<j;ht  a  snake  ;  if  they  meet  by 
chance  Uo  beats  a  retreat  ;  if  she  enters  a  room  svhcro 
he  is,  he  leaves  it  ;  he  breaks  olT  whatever  lie  is  sayinj^ 
to  listi'n  to  her  when  she  speaks.  If  she  stays  lor 
dinner,  as  she  has  on  one  or  two  occasions,  lie  dines  in 
holit  ude. 

This  is  all  very  remarkable,  l)nt  more  reniai'kablo 
still  is  thai  look  his  face  assumes  at  si^ht  of  her  ;  that 
look  is  so  extraordinarily  like  one  of  slirinkinsj^  fear. 
Who  is  this  ^irl?  What  is  she  to  the  Sleafords? 
What  to  her  husband,  that  all  this  shouKl  be  so? 
What  secret  binds  him  and  this  man  Sleaford  together 
in  its  dark  tie  ? 

Fov  Joniina,  she  is  evidently  unconscious  of  lier 
power.  She  sees  that  Mr.  Abbott  avoids  and  dislikes 
lier,  but  siie  is  used  to  that,  and  does  not  mind.  ISha 
dislikes  him  in  turn,  so  they  are  quits.  'rhat*!;;ho  has 
any  i'urlher  hold  upon  him,  she  is  unaware.  Mrs. 
Abbott  thinks  of  all  this,  but  slie  lias  little  desire  to 
lift  the  vail  ;  the  screen  that  hides  her  husband's  past 
life  is  a  merciful  one  ;  she  shrii.d-  s  from  ever  knowing 
"what  lies  behind.  If  she  does  not  wish  lor  the  pres- 
ence of  Mv.  Abbott,  wi.en  her  children's  young  friends 
assemble  at  Abbott  Wood,  she  has  but    to  keep  Jo- 


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Ml     i\   WHICH  .io\N\,\   KMKijs  sornrrr. 

ntM\.i  1)\  licr  sidt'  ln»  will  iiol  »'(Mh»'.  SIu'  lakes  miIvmii* 
i:\[\r  <>r  lliis  1(1  >;(<,'  iMllxT  mere  coiiipiiiiN  lliiin  \\  ;is  lii  r 
wont.  .I();n\ii,i*s  |)I'('s(m1('('  i>^  ;i  !';ii;ir,nil(M'  ihiil  Mr.  Al>- 
boli's  unnili  iu«'»l  rcinai  ivs  will  iiol  jnii  her  t  o  llic  Idiisli. 

1>I  ii::l>l  luook  lins  soino  n  v\  \  dcsij-.ihh'  rcsiilciils  now, 
V(M\  nit'c  people,  indeed,  who  eojn(>  there  lor  tlm 
Hninnu'V,  .•nnl  then*  is  altnndaiiee  of  pl(>;\s;\nt  soeiely 
for  l,eo.  iNIr.  AMioit  intrudes  not,  I'oi-  .loaini.'i  is 
(Thr,ri/s  th«'i(<  to  sinjjf.  l-on-'-  m;;o,  Mrs  Ald)oll,  wlio 
reMJly  likes  ilu'  y;\v],  would  line  lidven  li(»r  to  Aliliott 
Wood  "  (or  \x*^*u]  "  liMd  (5iles  Sle;il'or<l  not  r(>soInlely 
i"ofns(>d  to  ui\-e  Ium"  up. 

Those  li\e  ye;n's  h.ne  not  altered  him  in  any  w:jy, 
f\«'ept  that  he  d.iilv  ;::vtnvs  move  lt«>sotled  will)  drink 
and  "dry  roi."  lie  lets  Mr.  AhhotI  eom]»arat i vely 
alon<^  ;  his  j>oekets  are  always  well  tilled,  his  uirls  ami 
boys  W(dl  dressetl.  tlu^  old  rnde  ph'uty  reigns  at  tho 
farmstead,  the  old  "swarrys"  still  ohtain,  it-  is  tho 
render.vvMis  ol'  a  very  livi'ly  lo!  o\'  yoiinix  "i^'"  •*i''^ 
inaidtMis,  People  have  erow  n  \o  accept  Sleaford  and 
liis  thiil'tless  i'amily.  and  pretty  well  ceased  to  wonder 
at  his  connection  wit h  Mi'.  Ahbott.  A  billionaire  is  a 
pri\ilee;i>d  beinj:;.  They  are  proml  of  Abb«>lt  ^Vool^ 
i\\\{\  its  burly  lord  ;  he  has  in  a  ori>at  in(>asin\'  made  the 
plac'i\  he  is  the  SiM^neiir  of  the  soil,  owns  li.vlf  the  vib 
laa(\  and  the  bijj;  w  hite  hotel  that  in  summer  is  so  well 
an(i  f.ashionably  tillecb  Hillside  briMv.es,  lri)ut  streams, 
gunniuLT,  betatinp:.  bathiuii.  lishinu:  (.sw  pr<hy)(\'t>fs),  nil 
are  heri>.  nud  city  folk  come  w  ith  their  wives  and  littlo 
ones,  their  maitl  servants,  and  man  servants  (somo- 
tinic  ^").  and  er.iov  them. 

Mrs.  Abbott  likes  Joanna,  and  takes  an  interest  in 
her    welfare.     Yes,    but   Joanna   loves   Mrs.    Abbott, 


I 


'^ 


•. 

4 


V 


IN    \VIII(!||    JOANNA    KNTKKS   SOCIKTY.       \Ut 

n'V('r<'M  licr,  JidmircM  licr,  lliiiiks  lur  ihc  mosl  li",iiiii- 
I'lil,  :i('('()iii|»!islMM|,  :)ii«i  iKilrcl  Imiii;;-  nii  cnili.  iltr 
\V(>r,s|ii|i  iti  lliis  ;4;i(';|.|,  l;Mly  is,  !<»  ;i  (•(•rliiili  <'nI<  III,  Ik  r 
rcli^KHl,  her  s,il\  ;|l  lull.        If  slic   is  lriii|.|f(|    Id  do  uroli'",, 

1»>  ^ivc  way  In  |iissi()ii,  lii<<  I  lioii'dii,  "  ,M  im  /\Miiiil, 
will  iHtl  lilvc  il,"  is  Milliciciil  Id  icsliaiii  Ihi'.  licr 
Hiiiilc  is  .Iti;uiii!i's  friicrdoii,  licr  |»iii,ist'  ilic  jmiI's  dcli^lii, 
to  pU-asr  Imt  is  (lie  hi'^lirsl  aiiil>il  i<»ii  of  lirr  lijV.  'I'Ik! 
liidy  has  hied  lo  li'acji  her,  In  iiiikc  a  ( 'hiisi  iaii  of  In  r, 
to  ^ivc  lici'  yd  a.  Jiii^licr  slaiidard,  hiil  ][  is  n(»l  s(»  ca  sy 
to  cvaii^jjclizc  tins  yoiiii;^  liralli«'n.  TIm'  leopard  docs 
iiol  change  his  n)>oIh  ;  .loaiiiia,  does  not  chaii'.O'  her 
iialiirc  ill  M|)i(e  of  Ix-aiil  ifiil  iinisie,  paiiiled  wiiMJows, 
cinhroich'icd  allar-cloi  lis,  and  the  llowery  )teriods  of 
the  Kev.  Ij^iiatiiiH  Laiiih.  She  lisleiis,  and  elialcs  in- 
wardly— and  yel,  as  coiistaiil.  droppiiiL^  will  wear  a 
stone,  so  live  years  of  this  have  Hnltdne*!  Ihe  nirl,  and 
made  lier  liirii  her  ihoiiujhts,  with  a  cerlain  stricikeii 
awe,  lo  those  <x'"<'-'>>'  truths  she  reads  and  hears.  Tlieri! 
is  a  Ih'aveii,  ami  she  may  i^o  to  it,  she,  Slealord's 
.loanna,  (piile  as  readily  as  fair  Oli^a  Vent  nor  herself. 
y/idf  I'aet  she  has  grusjied,  and  it  does  her  j^ood,  in- 
creases her  seir-respeel,  and  spurs  her  on  to  hell.er 
thiiiijjs.  She  is  far  less  lierce,  she  t»;ives  up  had  lan- 
guajj^e,  she  trios  to  listen  in  siUmoct  to  the  tauiils  and 
sneers  at  home,  to  rise  stijterior  t,o  her  surrfHindin^s. 
l>ut  oh  !  it  is  weary  work — it  is  a  iiever-cndinLC  struLi;;- 
fjlo  ;  she  falls  back  aufaiii  and  a'jjain,  the  old  bitleiness, 
tlu'  old  des[)air,  clutch  lier  hardly  at  times.  Kuvy, 
hatred,  and  all  uncharitablencss  devour  hor  lusirf,  and 
tear  it  to  [liecos  betwoon  tluMii.  It  is  an  abnormal  life 
sho  loads,  two  lives,  and  slio  is  supremely  niiscrablo. 
Sho  strives  to  be  content,  to  be  thankful — it  is  impos- 


■  fwir  I 


H^PI 


11 


i-';! 


•■1 


il^ 


1 1 


M(^       IN     W  m«  II    JOANNA    KNIKKS    SOCIKTY. 

niMi'.  Shi>  lovi's  !Mrs.  AMtotf,  mIio  rt'vrn-M  Iwr,  nIjo 
wouM  i|o  ;m\ll»m<v  in  lh«'  u«m1«1  to  uin  l\n  |ii!iis«>  ||i(> 
Im'sI  oI  (lii^  pour  JojiMiii  ln';jinM  ami  cmiI*  llwic.  To 
lu'f  she  IS  |»;»ssioii;UrIy  ixralrlnl  ;  lo  llic  r«'sl  nl"  (lie 
^\oiIil  lu  1  lu'int  is  liko  ;»  sioMo.  Mntm  to  (it'(>lVn'\,  licr 
lirsl  tViiMi.l,  •*l\i'  \y  nliuost  np.Ululic  s|u'  lilu>x  lito.  (Ii.it 
is  , ill.  'I'Ihmo  is,  |M'rliaps,  »MU'  ollirr  rxfcption.  lnil  lliis 
ox«M»pt  i(>n  only  M(I<1s  Io  \\vv  iiiiliappinrsM  it  lills  lirr 
\\'\l]\  a  sjfiiau  in-:.  luist'iaM*'  iiiiu-sl.  ^■in'  iVcIs  w  irlvnl 
•.\\\<\  liolpK'ss.  aixl  all  ihc  time  sho  Ioid^s  to  Im'  ^ood,  lo 
he  iiol>I(\  to  In*  inu'.  II«'i*  !j;ootl  and  1»M(1  an-jjcis  war 
utronojly  lor  ibo  soul  of  .loanna. 

l.<M)t!:  •■V!r«^  ^li«'  oojilossod  luT  firsf  sin-  Ihm*  Mfla<'k 
upon  (^I'ja  \  ontn<M'.  Sh<»  i;o<'s  l«>  iNlrs.  AM>ott  ami 
oonl'ossos  it  voluntarilv.  lookin;::  <lownoasl,  an<l  aslianicd. 
Tlio  lailv  listiM.s  vorv  ijvavolv. 

**  1  1«;uimI  so."  sIu'  says:  "  it  is*  ixooil  of  you  to  oon- 
foss  it.  .l(>anna.  Vo  ho  sorry  for  a  fault  is  to  aniontl 
it.  l>ut  1  til  ink  you  onuht  to  apoloLiizo  to  Miss 
VtMilnor." 

"  (^h  I"    .l»\ninn   says,  with  a  gasp  —  7y><if  is  ipiito 

auv''tluM-  fbino- — to  trll  this  kin«l.  good,  gent h'  lady  is 
easy. 

"  1  think  y«Mi  ought.  It  U(\arly  killod  Ikm-.  Sho 
doos  utM  suspoi't.  and  sho  will  mot't  you  lu-ro.  1  do 
not  ord(M"  von  to  do  so — 1  loayo  it  ti>  your  own  ooii- 
pcionoo.     i>ut  1  think  yiMi  ought." 

That  is  all.  Tlioro  is  a  struusilo  in  tho  wild  luvirt 
of  Slo;;l"ord*s  doanna  —  tho  lirst  struuLrlo  botwoou  riufht 
and  w  rong.  and  riglu  conquers.  k>ho  goos  lingoringly 
up  to  ('Jlga  Vontuor.  standing  for  a  luomont  ;\lou«\  and 
staiuu\oi*s  out  hor  eoufossion. 

"  It  was  nio/"  sho  says,  confusedly.    "  I  didn't  moan 


> 


IN     WHICH    JOANNA     KNTKIJM    SOCFI   lY.       I  17 


(o  Iiiirl  you  only  (unit  olT  yoiir  li;iir.  I'm  very  Hony. 
I  |io|M>  yoii      Villi  ilutri   iiiio-l  !'* 

"  )■<»/</"  <  H";i  rscljiiiiiH,  horror  in  licr  ryes.  All 
llio  l('irt»r  ol  lli.il  Iciiildc  lime  cliiniM  lo  lur,  Slic 
IooKm  lit  licr  will)  IcMt',  will)  ahlioririic",  hikI  iiiniM  .iiiii 
llirM. 

.roiinti.'i  slMinls  iinilc,  iiiol  ioiiN'ss.  Il.ili'  :iii  lioiir 
nlhT,  w  Immi  ()l!';i,  Iht  llr  I  p.iiiic  i>\ry,  jinil  jihIi;iiiii'(|  fif 
\\\\;\i    she    liiiH   (|(»iu',    rrliiiiis     mIic    litnls    her   Hl.'in<li(iLj 


(lu'io  h 


lill 


"  I  :iin  Sony,"  <M<f,i  Njiys,  Iml  Imt  Ih'ikI  is  very  nccl, 
n><  slio  s:ivs  il  slir  Joch  iioi  Ntol;  sorry.  *' I  <lo  nof, 
iiiiiKJ  in  till*  li'.'isl  MOW.  I  dill  iml  lliink  u  licii  I  riiit 
jiwny.      I  lio|M'  V""  ''••  '"•'  tnintl." 

Tlic  ltl;i<'iv  eyes  look  ;il  lur.  'I'lt<'y  lire  so  llcrcc,  so 
full  ol' IihIi-imI,  iIimI.  ()Il;;i  recoils. 

"  I  will  luiiid  as  loiiijj  as  I  live  !"  .loaniia  says,  .'umI 
funis  fnuu  Iwr,  m|  rikiiii;  <lo\vii  llic  liaixl  slio  lias  lialf 
held   oitl. 

So  ends  .loaiuia's  lirsl,  im|nils(!  lo  ( ry  and  ho 
"  tiood.'"     Alas  !     most    of    her    imiuils(!s   end    in    I  lio 


same  wa 


y 


TlnM'o  ar(^  lights,  and  ilowcrs,  and  fair  face's,  and 
n\usic,  and  feast in;^  in  silent,  stately  AbhotI,  Wood  to- 
niujlit,  for  ilie  lilll(>  diiiiLTlitor  of  the  Iiouhc;  is  fifteen, 
and  her  friends,  and  Olufji's,  and  (JeolVniy's  are  down 
from  tho  eity  in  force  to  wish  her  many  liapjty  returns. 
She  has  had  her  wish.  It  has  snowed  all  <lay,  and  now 
the  moon,  a  brilliant.  Christmas  sickle,  shines  down  on 
glistening  snow,  black,  bjiro  trees,  gaunt  hedges  and 
avenues,  but  it  is  windless,  and  still  mild.  It  is  no 
greon  yule,  and  great  fires   blaze  iiigh   in   gleaniinr 


i 


1 


148      IN   WiriCII  JOANNA   ENTERS   SOCIETY. 


grates,  for  no  abomination  of  pipes  or  registers  dese- 
crate winter  at  Abbott  Wood.  The  "  mi,>*iIetoG 
boiigli  "  liangs  from  tlie  drawing-room  coiling,  though 
the  custom  of  kissing  under  it  is  more  honored  in  the 
breach  tlian  tlie  observance  ;  holly,  and  arl)utus,  and 
winter  berries  adorn  walls  and  windows,  and  there  are 
flowers,  flowers,  flowers  everywhere.  A  tolerably 
largo  company  are  coming — nearly  all  young  people, 
for  it  is  understood  it  is  little  more  than  a  girl's  party, 
after  all. 

"  Remember  !  come  early,  Joanna,"  is  Mrs.  Abbott's 
last  injunction  ;  "  and  bo  in  your  best  looks  and  voice 
to-night." 

Joanna  shrugs  her  shoulders. 

"  My  looks  do  not  matter  in  the  least.  My  voice  I 
will  try  and  have  to  order,"  is  her  answer.  It  is  for 
her  voice  she  is  here,  she  knows,  not  for  herself. 

She  comes  early,  and  dresses  in  a  little  room  that 
is  kept  for  her  use.  There  is  so  much  envy  and 
bickering  with  Lora  and  Liz,  that  she  keeps  but  few 
of  her  things  at  home.  Mrs.  Abbott  provides  her 
dresses,  of  course-,  but  simple  ones  always.  Joanna 
will  have  nothing  else,  and  Mrs.  Abbott  sees  that 
gayety  would  not  accord  with  the  fitness  of  things. 
She  wears  to-night  a  dress  of  dark-blue  silk,  but  so 
plainly  made  that  nothing  could  be  less  stnart  ;  a  gold 
cross  and  chain  ;  her  abundant  reddish  hair  braided 
as  tightly  and  compactly  as  possible  about  her  small 
head,  and  she  is  read^ .  And  she  looks  very  well — 
"slim  and  genteel,  and  quite  the  lady,"  Mrs.  Ilill,  the 
housekeeper,  tells  her,  condescendingly,  "only  she 
ought  to  put  a  bit  of  pink  ribbon  or  blue  flower  in  her 
hair." 


IN  WniCII  JOANNA   ENTERS   SOCIETY.      149 

Joanna  laughs. 

"  To  put  pink  ribbon  in  red  hair  would  be  to  paint 
the  lily,  Mrs.  Hill,"  she  says,  good-liumoredly.  Of 
personal  vanity  she  has  not  a  particle  ;  her  red  hair 
does  not  discompose  her  in  the  least. 

She  goes  down,  and  IMrs.  Abbott  glances  at  lier 
.'>pprovingly.  Quite  plain,  severely  simple,  yet  well- 
dressed — it  is  as  it  should  be  ;  Joanna  does  her  no 
discredit. 

"If  Old}'  you  sing  as  well  as  you  look,  my  dear,  I 
shall  be  quite  satisjied/'  she  says,  kindly. 

Leo  is  there,  all  in  white — a  costly  toilet,  white 
lace  over  pearl-colored  silk,  and  strands  of  ])earls  in 
her  dark,  perfumed  hair.  Her  bronze  eyes  shine,  her 
cheeks  flush,  her  childish  face  is  bright  with  excite- 
ment. She  kisses  Joanna  in  childish  glee.  Mr.  Ab- 
bott reconnoiters  once,  sees  Joanna,  and  flees. 

The  company  come  early,  and  come  ra})i(lly — it  is 
in  the  country — city  hours  do  not  obtain,  and  it  is 
only  Leo's  party.  A  number  of  youthful  guests  are 
staying  in  the  house,  nearly  a  dozen  more  come  from 
Ventnor  Villa,  with  Olga  and  Frank. 

Olga  is  like  a  vision,  like  an  Undine,  like  a  water- 
lily.  She  wears  some  pale,  sheeny  silk,  half  silvery, 
half  green,  Avith  quantities  of  tulle,  and  bunches  of 
pale  pink  roses.  Even  Joanna  catches  her  breath  as 
she  looks  at  her.  That  gold  hair,  that  clear,  star-like 
face,  that  imperial  poise  of  head  and  shoulders,  that 
exquisite  water-nymph  dress. 

"  Ob  '"  Joanna  says,  "  how  lovely  !  how  lovely  !" 

"  How  lovely  !"  a  voice  echoes. 

It  is  Geoffrey  Lamar,  whose  deep  gray  eyes  glow 
as  they  look  on  this  Peri.     A  second  later,  and  he  is 


ni\\m 


I ) 


'      .  .  i  ! 


li': 


,  1 


1 1  ■; 


5 


ill 


150     IN   WHICH  JOANNA    ENTERS  SOCIETY. 

by  li(ir  side.  Frank  Livingston,  looking  insouciant 
and  handsome,  conies  over  to  present  liis  felicitations 
to  Miss  Abbott.  The  rainbow  throng  meets,  mingles, 
clis])erses.  Joanna,  in  the  shade  of  a  great  janUnUre^ 
watches  it  all.  Frank  engages  Leo  for  the  first  dance  ; 
Geoffrey  has  Olga ;  others  seek  partners ;  dancing 
begins  almost  immediately.  Colonel  Ventnor  seeks 
out  Mr.  Abbott  in  the  library,  and,  with  two  other 
papas,  enjoys  a  quiet  game  of  whist. 

The  band  music  rings  merrily  out,  the  young  peo- 
ple merrily  dance.  Joanna  does  not  dance.  Young 
ladies  are  in  the  majority — as  it  is  in  the  nature  of 
young  ladies  to  be — and  no  one  notices  her  until  it  is 
time  to  sing.  Then  she  glides  to  the  piano,  at  a 
signal  from  Mrs.  Abbott,  and  her  fine  voice  breaks 
through  the  chatter  and  hum,  and  talkers  stop,  per- 
force, to  listen.  She  sings  alone,  then  with  Leo,  then 
alone  again,  for  people  crowd  around  her,  and  there  is 
soft  clapping  of  gloved  hands  and  gentle  murmurs  of 
praise. 

"  Sing  us  a  Christmas  carol,"  says  Mrs.  Ventnor  ; 
"  to-morrow  is  Ciiristmas  Eve." 

She  thinks  a  moment,  and  then,  in  a  softened  voice, 
a  little  tremulous,  she  sings  a  very  old  hymn  : 

*'  Earthly  friends  may  change  and  falter, 
Earthly  friends  uiuy  vary; 
He  is  born,  who  cannot  alter, 
Of  the  Virgin  Mary." 

"Oh  !  how  sweet  !"  Mrs.  Ventnor  says,  tears  in  her 
eyes  ;  "  please — please  sing  another.  Your  voice  goes 
to  my  heart." 


IN^   WHICH   JOANNA.   ENTERS   SOCIETY.      151. 


The  girl  lifts  two  dark,  melancholy,  grateful  eyes 
to  the  lady,  and  sings  again  : 


"  He  neither  shall  be  born 

In  housen  nor  in  hall, 
Nor  in  the  place  of  paradise, 

But  in  an  ox's  stall. 
He  neither  shall  be  rook'd 

In  silver  nor  in  gold, 
But  in  a  wooden  manger 

That  rocks  upon  the  mold." 

Then  she  rises,  and  they  make  way  for  her  to  pass 
with  a  certain  deference  and  wonder. 

"Who  is  she — that  plain  girl  witii  the  beautiful 
voice?"  they  asK  in  undertones.  As  she  moves  on, 
Frank  Livingston  meets  her,  and  liolds  out  his  hand. 

"  It  is  the  first  time  I  have  had  a  glimpse  of  you  to- 
night, Mademoiselle  Cantatrice,"  he  says.  "  You  sing 
more  and  more  like  an  angel  every  day.  You  always 
make  me  want  to  go  into  a  corner  and  cry  whenever 
you  open  your  mouth  !" 

Joanna  laughs.  The  compliment  is  ambiguous,  to 
say  the  least,  but  her  somber  face  lights  into  moment- 
ary brightness  at  his  careless  words.  The  next  moment 
he  is  gone.  He  has  espied  Olga  standing  in  a  window- 
recess  alone.  He  bends  above  her,  says  something 
laughingly,  encircles  her  slight  waist  with  his  arm. 
Only  for  a  second — with  a  most  decided  motion  she 
frees  herself,  and  waves  him  off.  It  is  all  in  a  moment, 
but  in  that  moment  every  trace  of  gladness  leaves 
Joanna's  face.  She  turns  angrily,  frowningly  away. 
She  will  not  sing  any  more.  She  goes  out  of  the  ball- 
room, finds  her  shawl  and  hat,  and  sullenly  quits  the 
house.  She  glances  back  at  the  lig'  '"^d  windows  with 
a  darkling  face.     Music  follows  her,  dancing   is  re- 


-■.  i    '' 


I  I 


\ 

;«! 

152      IN   WJIICII  JOANNA   ENTERS   SOCIETY. 

commciicini^,  she  will  not  be  missed.  She  does  not 
care  if  she  is. 

She  walks  down  under  the  black  trees  to  the  gate. 
There  she  stops,  folds  her  arms  on  the  top  of  the  low 
stone  wall,  and  stands  still.  There  is  nothing  more 
cdldly  melancholy  than  n^oonlight  on  snow  ;  it  suits 
her  mood,  this  steel-cut  landscape,  all  ebony  and 
ivory.  As  sho  stands,  a  figure  comes  out  of  the 
shadow  and  approaches  her.  She  stares  at  it,  but  in 
no  surpi'iso  or  alarm. 

"Oh!"  she  says,  ungraciously  enough;  "it  is 
yore  ! "' 

"It  is  I.  I  thought  you  would  come  out,  Joanna. 
You  mosf.ly  do,  you  know.     Ar(^  you  going  home  V" 

"  What  arc  you  doing  here?"  Joanna  demands,  still 
ungraciously,  and  not  moving. 

"  Oh,  you  know,"  George  lilako  answers.  "  It  is 
my  oli-niglit,  and  I  could  not  keep  away.  Try  and  be 
civil  to  a  fellow,  Joanna.  Are  you  going  home?  Let 
me  go  Avith  you." 

She  stands  silent.  George  Blake  is  in  love  with 
her — she  is  amazed,  but  not  in  the  least  flattered  by 
tho'fact.  Plain  Sleaford's  Joanna,  as  she  is,  she  has 
some  nameless  fascination  for  him.  He  has  been  in 
the  habit  of  going  to  the  Sleafords'  for  years  without 
being  in  the  least  smitten  by  either  of  the  fair  Misses 
Sleaford.  Suddenly,  without  knowing  wliy  or  where- 
fore, he  is  possessed  of  a  passion  for  this  girl,  Joanna, 
that  holds  him  as  with  bonds  and  fetters.  His  mother 
would  not  approve  ;  Joanna  snubs  him  unmercifully — 
all  the  same,  his  infatuation  deepens  with  every  day. 

"Are  you  coming?"  young  Blake  asks;  "or  aro 
you  going  back  to  the  house  ?'* 


IN    WlirOir   JOANNA    ENTEKS   SOCIETY.      153 

Sho  glances  over  lier  shoulder  once  more  nt  thoso 
lighted  windows,  with  a  frown. 

"  I  will  go  home.  Oh,  yes,  you  may  come.  They 
will  not  miss  me — thev  are  too  well  eni;a<j:ed." 

"I  suppose  all  the  cream  of  the  cream  are  there?'* 
he  says,  gayly  dniAving  her  arm  through  his,  (juito 
haji))y  for  the  time — "the  Van  Kensselaers,  the  Vent- 
nors,  and  the  rest.     Livingston  is  there,  of  course?" 

"  Of  course,"  she  savs,  shortlv. 

"  And  dcivoted  to  the  lovely  princess?  Ah,  what  a 
match  !io  will  make  ! — beauty,  riches,  everytliing — must 
have  been  born  with  a  diamond  spoon  in  his  mouth — 
that  fellow." 

IShe  does  not  reply.  She  shivers,  and  draws  her 
shawl  wath  impatience  about  her. 

"  How  cold  it  is  !"  she  says,  almost  angrily.  "  Do 
not  talk.     Let  us  hurry.     It  is  nearly  two  o'clock." 

But  George  does  talk,  gayly  and  fluently.  lie 
talks  so  much  that  lie  is  unconscious  she  listens  in 
silence.  They  reach  the  farm,  wra})ped  in  quiet  and 
darkness,  w^ithout  meeting  a  soul.  All  are  in  bed,  but 
Joanna  has  a  key. 

"  Good-night,"  she  says,  "  and  don't  be  so  foolish 
waiting  for  me  another  time.  What  would  your 
mother  say  ?" 

He  laughs. 

"  My  mother  thinks  I  am  virtuously  asleep  in  New 
York.  We  do  not  tell  our  mothers  everything.  It 
Avould  not  be  good  for  'em.     Good-night,  Joanna." 

He   goes   oflF,   whistling,  through    the  white,  still, 

frozen  night.     Joanna  gets  in,  and  reaches  her  room, 

but  she  does  not  go  to  bed.     She  sits  there  in  the 

chill,  ghostly  moonlight  a  long  time — so  long  that  the 

7* 


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154     IX    WHICH   JOANNA   CAPS   THE   CLIMAX. 

moon  wanes,  and  sots,  and  tho  stars  fade  out,  and  the 
di'('|)  darkness  that  prt'codos  dawn  fails  on  the  oartli. 
Far  <»fT,  at  Abbott  Wtiod,  the  j^ay  birtli-nijjfbt  party  is 
breaking  nj),  and  good-byes  are  being  spoken,  to  tbo 
merry  musie  of  sleigli-bells.  Hut  tho  dark  morning 
sky  is  not  darker  tiian  tbo  sot  face  of  Sleaford'a 
Joanna. 


-♦♦^ 


ciiArrER  III. 

IN    WHICH   JOANNA    CAPS   THE   CLIMAX. 

T  is  tlio  afternoon  of  New  Year's  Day — a 
windy  and  overcast  afternoon.  Fast  drift- 
ing elouds  arc  bU)\vn  wildly  over  a  leaden 
sky,  "ondingon  snaw  ;"  a  gale  surges  with 
tile  roar  of  the  sea  tlirough  the  pine  woods  ;  far  off,  the 
deep  diapason  of  that  miglity  sea  itself  blonds  its 
lioarse  roar  in  the  elemental  chorus.  The  marshes  lio 
all  flat  and  sodden  with  recent  rain  and  melted  snow. 
It  is  a  desolate  picture  on  which  tho  girl  looks  who 
leans  over  tho  gate  at  Sleaford's,  and  gazes  blankly 
before  her,  with  eyes  as  dreary  as  the  landscape  itself. 
She  looks  flushed  and  weary,  and  with  reason  ;  the 
long  soughing  blast  sweeps  cool  and  kindly  as  a  friend's 
hand  over  her  hot  forehead.  Iler  wild  hair  blows 
about  in  its  usual  untidy  fashion — her  dress  is  a  torn 
and  soiled  calico  wrapper.  No  "  neat-handed  Phillis," 
this,  no  spotless  dimity  household  divinity,  but  simply 
Sleaford's  Joanna  resting  after  the  toils  of  the  day. 

The  red  farm-house  behind  her  lies  silent  and  som- 
ber, tbo  bark  of  one  of  the  many  dogs,  now  and  then, 


^^ 


IN    WHICH   JOANNA    CAPS   THE   CLIMAX. 


.55 


I 

m 


aloiu'  brciikiiiij;  the  siloncc.     The  liouscliold  aro  awav, 


excu'pt  Ihe  luastor,  and  \ic  ih  sii'cjuni;-  oil   a  licavy  diii- 
ir,  washed  down  1)}    copious  draughts  of  whisky,  i 


n 


u 


the  upper  chand>er,  vsac'jd  to  Ids  use.  For  is  it  not 
New  Year's  Dav,  and  have  not  }a/.  and  Lora  to  receive 
;heir  i^entlenier  friends  V  Neither  the  weatlicr  nor  tlie 
roads  being  i»ropitious,  and  Sleaford's  being  two  or 
three  miles  out  of  tijo  way,  the  young  ladies  have  ac- 
cepted the  invitation  (d'  a  coujtle  of  their  friends,  and 
\\n\ii  gouii  t'/i  </ra/ide  tenue  io  Jirighl brook  to  receive. 
Dan    ami    Jud,  in    their  Sabbath    best,  are  "  call! ni2f. 


i> 


Giles,  Joanna,  and  the  dogs  ai'e  keeping  house. 

It  lias  been  no  holiday  for  th(i  girl  ;  she  has  never 
had  a  holiday  in  her  life.  'JMiere  has  been  a  dinner 
party  at  the  farm-house,  and  she  has  been  cook.  The 
oilice  has  been  no  sinecure — there  has  been  a  goose 
sluU'ed  with  sage  and  onions,  a  large,  vulgar,  savory 
bird,  to  roa;;t — a  turkey,  with  dressing,  to  boil,  a  plum 
]  adding  ditto,  sundry  vegetables,  and  stewed  fruits,  to 
go  with  these  dainties.  Yesterday  a  huge  beefsteak 
*.ad  kidney  pasty  was  concocted,  and  a  ham  boiled.  To 
these  viands  a  select  company  of  six  young  ladies  and 
gentlemen,  exclusive  of  the  family,  have  turned  their 
hungry  attention.  The  Miss  Sleafords,  in  brand-new 
silk  suits,  have  gone  to  meeting  in  Brightbrook,  and 
brought  their  friends  back  with  them.  Joanna  has 
cooked,  but  has  refused  to  wait  at  table. 

"There  is  your  dinner  ;  wait  on  yourselves,  or  go 
without,"  she  has  said,  briefly,  and  they  have  waited 
on  themselves  without  much  grumbling,  for  everything 
has  been  done  to  a  charm.  Now  they  are  gone  again  ; 
she  has  washed  the  dishes  and  "  redd  up,"  and,  tired, 
flushed,  heavy-hearted,  she   stands   leaning   over  the 


1 1 


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■   .1 

■:  At 


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1  ;i 


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150  IN  WHICH  JOAXXA  caps  the  climax. 

fenco,  lo(>kiii!:j  witli  lliosc  ixivjit  bliirk,  inol.iiio'ioly  oyos 
of  li(  rs,  ;it  that,  low-lyinuj,  r;isl-<lril'liiiix  sky. 

l>iit  it.  is  m'illii'i'  tlu>  Nvi>;iriiR'ss  of  Iiihor,  tho  «lro;vi'i- 
lU'ss  of  nUvv  soliliido,  tho  loss  of  ;v  holi(h\y  th;it  iill 
tho  rest  of  tho  world  is  oiiiovinu:,  that,  woiiihs  hor  down. 
To  all  tiu'si»  things  she  is  imiiod  ;  custom  has  hlup.lod 
thoir  odtco,  she  hardly  fools  thoir  |>ain.  It  is  somothiiiuf 
olst>,  sonu'thinu;  holoiiLriiiijj  to  that  other  lif(»  that  is  not 
C'onnootod  wit  ii  Sloaforifs — tliat  other  lifo  that  soonis 
to  hi'Idii!;-  to  another  world. 

Till  V  liangos  that  have  oeonrrod  since  the  Christmas 
birtlniii>ht,  party  are  those.  The  Vontnors  have  re- 
tnrniMl  t(^  town,  thoir  visitors  witli  lliom.  Before  _t)^o in j;!^ 
they  iiad  given  a  party,  to  which  Joanna  was  bidden, 
in  kindlii\st,  gentlest  words,  by  kindly,  gentle  iNTrs. 
Vent!ior.  The  girl  had  gone,  of  course;  it  was  not 
optional  with  hor  to  decline.  She  is  asked  tosi!ig,  and 
goes  for  tlial  purptise.  The  Abbotts  are  there,  all 
wlio  wore  at  Abbott's  Wood  the  other  night,  and  many 
more.  Otice  more  Olga,  in  jialest  rose  silk,  looks  lovely 
as  a  dream  ;  everything  she  wears  seems  to  become 
her  more  than  the  last.  Once  more  very  young  men 
flock  around  hor  as  butterflies  round  a  rosebud  ;  and 
at  this  party  something  lias  occurred  that  has  stung 
this  poor,  sensitive,  morbid  Joanna  to  the  very  heart. 
Only  Mrs.  Abbott,  and  one  other,  have  }>ower  enough 
over  that  heart  to  sting  it  to  its  core — it  is  that  other 
who  unwittingly  has  done  it. 

Joanna  has  been  singing.  Some  passionate  pain  at 
hor  heart  makes  the  song — a  despairing  love  song — 
ring  out  with  an  intensity  of  power  that  thrills  all  wlio 
listen.  ]\Irs.  Van  Rensselaer,  the  greatest  of  all  great 
ladies,  has  taken  the  girl's  hand  in  her  grand  duchess 


IN    WIIIOII   JOANNA    (^APS   TUK   CLIMAX.     157 

niannor,  and  sa'ul  sonio  ovprpowcriiigly  ('ondoscond'mn; 
things.  Il  is  OIK'  of  .loamia's  iiiiiuiin'i'al>K'  laiilts  that 
slio  liaUvs  patroiiai;!',  and  all  who  jtatroni/o.  Iiisli'.id 
of  hciiiiL^  ovci'wlic'hnoil  by  the  j^racious  UiiidiU'SM  of 
iMrs.  Van  IviMissclaiT,  who  lias  i>atroni/AMl  I  he  greatest 
arlists  in  hvv  finic,  .loaiina  frees  Ikt  hand,  an<l  (Mifs  iho 
huly  l)rns(jiU'ly  and  decidedly  short.  Slii'  turns  iii'i* 
back  deliberately  upon  her — hei" — Mrs.  Van  lleiissc!- 
laer  ! — and  nu»ves  away.  'I'lio  lady  stands  petrilied. 
'JMic  expression  of  her  rii;id  ania/einent  and  dismay, 
her  stony  stare,  are  too  tnnt^h  for  I'^rank  Livin<j;ston,  who 
witnesses  the  pei-forinancu'.  lie  retreats  into  a  window 
reeess  to  lauLijh.  Tlu'rc^  he  encounters  Tfeoffri'V  lianiar, 
who,  with  knitted  brows,  has  also  behold  this  littlo 
scene. 

"  Dy  Jovo  !"  Frank  cries,  throwing  back  his  iiead, 
and  laughing  exi)losively,  "  it  is  the  most  delicious 
jt)ke  !  the  great  >[rs.  Van  Rensselaer  snubbed — snub- 
bed by  Sleaford's  Joanna  !  Behold  the  glare  of  that, 
]\Iedusa  face  1  On  my  word,  I  believe  slie  will  have  a 
lit !" 

"Mrs.  Van  Rensselaer  deserves  it  !"  Geoffrey  says, 
flushing  with  anger.  "  Why  cannot  they  let  the  girl 
alone  ?  God  has  given  her  an  exquisite  voice,  and  such 
women  as  that  think  to  uplift  her  by  their  patronizing 
praise.     She  has  served  Mrs.  Van  Rensselaer  right !" 

"  Bravo,  Geoff  !  Set  lance  in  rest,  and  ride  forth 
in  defense  of  your  protege.  Do  you  know  what  it  re- 
minds me  of? — that  old  story  of  James  the  First,  the 
baronet-making  king,  and  his  nurse.  The  old  lady 
asks  him,  you  know,  to  make  her  son  a  gentleman. 
'I'll  mak  your  son  a  baronet,  if  ye  like.  Lucky,*  says 
the  king,  '  but  the  deevil  himsel'  wadna  mak  him  a 


!f 


3^   f, 

•••    (  ■ 


)•■' 


!    ! 


'  li  ■  ;  i 


'  I 


I'!  I 

1     !  '   I 


<    ! 


i   1 


I, 


I'.. 


iVi!" 


ill 


1  'I     i 


MHI 


I'         !        I 


158    IN  WHICH  JOANNA   CAPS  THE  CLIMAX. 

gentleman.'  The  cases  are  similar.  You  may  make 
Slealord's  Joanna  a  sinu^cr  if  you  like,  Lamar,  hut — 
your  mother  herself  cannot  make  iier  a  ij^cntlewoman." 
He  goes  oil"  laughing-.  A  lignre,  stiMxling  motion- 
less, iii<hlen  by  a  llovver-wreathed  pillar,  has  heard 
every  word.  And  the  while  marble  of  the  pillar  is 
not  whiter  tiian  Iier  face.  J>/ivingston  is  quoting  Shake- 
speare over  his  shoulder  as  he  goes  : 

"Oil,  when  she's  !U);:,M'y  she  is  keen  and  shrewd; 
8hc  was  a  vixen  when  she  went  to  school, 
And  though  she  is  hut  little,  she  is  lierce  !" 

A«  hour  after  he  comes  up  to  her,  as  she  stands  a 
little  apart,  after  singing  again — a  sweet  little  Scotch 
ballad,  that  has  touched  even  him. 

*'  I  foresee  we  are  all  going  to  be  })roud  of  our 
."8)ightbrook  nightingale,"  he  says,  gayly.  "  When 
your  biogra[)hy  is  written,  we  will  recall — and  put  on 
.iik's  in  consequence — that  we  knew  and  heard  you  first. 
Hy-the-bye,  the  honor  of  discovery  lies  with  Lamar, 
flow  was  it,  I  wonder,  that  I,  knowing  you  so  long 
before  him,  never  found  you  out,  or  thought  what  a 
singing  bird  you  were  ?" 

She  looks  at  him.  To  this  day  he  does  not  under- 
stand, perhaps,  the  fiery  wrath  and  scorn  of  her  eyes. 
"  Your"*  she  says,  and  he  winces  and  stares  at  her 
tone.  "  You  !  Why,  you  never  thought  of  any  one 
but  yourself  in  all  your  life  !" 

"Upon  my  word,"  says  Mr.  Livingston,  when  he 
recovers  a  little,  "  here  is  a  facer  !  First  she  floors 
Mrs.  Van  Rensselaer — now  me.  What  have  I  done,  I 
wonder?     I  haven't  been  patronizing,  have  I,  Olga?" 

Miss  Ventnor's  beautiful,  short  upper  lip  curls. 


IN   WHICH   JOANNA   CAPS   THE  CLIMAX.     159 


(( 


She  i.s  never  very  civil,  i)ut  to-niglit  she  is  really 
quite  too  horrid.  Mrs.  Van  llenssehuM'  is  cert/  uiigry." 
'J'heii  siie  retnetnber.s  Joiiniia  is  her  mother's  guest, aiul 
stops.  "  I  siii»[)ose  it  is  to  be  expected,  poor  creature  ; 
the  bettor  way  is  to  say  nothing  to  her  at  all.  Thia 
waltz  is  yours,  I  think,  Frank,  if  you  wish  to  claim  it." 

If  he  wishes?  Frank's  blue,  speaking  eyes  answer 
the  question,  but  Olga  only  laughs. 

"Keep  your  sentimental  h^oks  for  Rosa  Brevoort, 
sir,"  she  says,  tossing  back  her  sunshiny  tresses  ;  '•  sho 
believes  in  them — I  do  not.  No,  nor  your  pretty 
8j)eeches,  either — so  don't  go  quoting  Teiniyson  at  me  ! 
Young  men  who  quote  poetry  and  look  as  you  do  at 
ijvery  girl  you  dance  with,  ought  to  be  bowstrung,  or 
put  in  the  pillory." 

Miss  Olga  speaks  with  some  irritation.  She  means 
vhat  she  says.  She  laughs  at  Livingston's  love-mak- 
ing ;  she  derides  his  tender  glances  ;  she  declines  being 
JJirted  with,  but  for  some  cause  it  annoys  her.  Perhaps 
nhe  does  not  choose  to  make  one  in  the  long  litany  of 
Frank'a  flirtees.  Of  that  family  compact,  settled  five 
/ears  ago,  she  has  not  heard  a  word. 

And  this  being  New  Year's  Day,  as  sho  stands  hero 
alone,  and  untidy,  at  the  gate,  Joanna  is  thinking  of 
all  this.  Every  day  of  her  life  she  chafes  more  and 
more  ;  either  existence,  perhaps,  she  could  stand,  but 
both  are  killing  her. 

"Why  have  I  ever  known  these  people?"  her  soul 
cries  out  in  its  bitterness.  "Better,  oh!  a  thousand 
times  better  to  drudge  in  Sleaford's  kitchen,  to  cook 
dinners,  and  wash  pots  and  pans,  and  know  no  higher, 
fairer  life.  I  might  live  as  an  animal  does  then — eat, 
and  sleep,  and  never  think.     But  to  know  them,  to  see 


m 


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n 

1  - 

■ 'i 

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1 

1 

; 

1()0    IX    WHICH   JOANNA    CAPS   Tin-;   CLIMAX. 

tlu'lr  life,  to  miiii^lc  with  il,  to  bo  ainonuf  tlicin,  but 
iiuvor  of  ilu'iii — I  (MiiiKti.  ciHluri'  it  imich  Iomljci'.  It 
will  citlitT  (Mill  in  my  killing;  luysclf  or  rmitiiiiuf  ;i\v:iy  !" 

As  slic  speaks,  sukI  .^ho  speaks  aloud — much  solitudo 
has  tauL^lit  Iut  the  habit — a  mau  comes  up  tlic  slushy 
road,  aiul  stands  near  hci',  uiisiun. 

"  Ivill  myscir/'  she  repi'ats,  in  a  low,  tense  tone, 
**  and  why  not  ?  It  is  the  shoilest  solution  totlu'dilli- 
culty.  Perhaps  even  /w  W(»uld  cave  then  !  JJut  no," 
contemplU(»usIy,  '*  he  would  say,  '  liy  Jove,  you  know 
— poor  .loanna  !'  and  wait/  with  Olira  ten  minutes 
after.  Still,  1  sweai-,  I  have  half  a  mind  to  go  <1owu 
to  Black's  Dam  and  do  it  !" 

At  this  monu'iit  she  is  handsome  ;  lier  sallow  clieeks 
ilushed,  her  black  (>yes  shinin<j^  with  unholy  lire.  Sho 
strikes  her  clenched  hand,  in  her  des])orate  mood,  oil 
the  bar,  so  as  to  bring  blood.  The.strange  fascination 
that  lias  held  (^eorge  IJIake  from  the  iirst,  sweeps  over 
liim  like  a  resistless  torrent  now.  lie  leans  forward, 
his  face  flushing  darkly  red. 

"  Don't  drown  yourself,  Joanna,"  he  says  ;  "  do  bet- 
ter.    jMarry  mo  !" 

She  looks  at  him.  She  has  not  heard  him  ;  he  has 
overheard  her,  but  he  does  not  discompose  her  in  the 
least.  She  looks  at  liim  a  full  minute  without  speak- 
inix.  It  is  one  of  the  traits  of  Joanna's  curious  char- 
acter,  that  she  can  stare  any  man  or  woman  alive  out 
of  countenance,  without  winkiniy  once. 

"Do  better?"  siie  repeats.  "  Would  that  be  doing 
better?"  Her  eyes  never  leave  his  face.  "Are  you 
rich  ?"  she  demands. 

"  Xo,  poor — poor  as   a  church  mouse  ;  a  penniless 


IN   WHICH   .lOANNA   CATS  THE   CLIMAX.     101 

ln\i»!jj.'ir   of  a   pjiragnipliist.     Hut  it  would  Ix^   bettor 
than  IJIac-k\s  Dain." 

"  WoiiUl  it  ?"  sho  says  ajjfain.  "  I  am  not  so  sure  of 
tliat.  lilat'k's  Datn  vvouM  I'lid  f'  rytliini^ — !:C">'"i^  with 
you  wouhl  not.  It  wouhl  bo  only  ox(^haii<j;inLf  oru3  sort 
of  hanlship  for  anotlior.     And  I  don't  want  to  marry 

—i/o,t  r 

"  I  am  awfully  fond  of  you,  Joanna,"  tho  poor  younj^ 
fellow  pleads.  *'  I  would  work  for  you.  \Vu  could 
live  in  New  Vork  on  my  pay.  And  you  would  have  a 
good  time.  I  sjjct  free  pass(>s  to  all  the  theaters,  you 
know,  ajid  all  the  slights,  and  that.  We  could  board, 
you  know.  You  would  not  have  to  work.  And  you 
would  like  New  \<.!'k.     i)o  think  of  it,  Joanna." 

"  New  York  ?"  she  repeats,  aiul  her  threat  eyes  lii^ht. 
"Yes,  I  would  like  New  York.  I  loiU  thiidv  of  it, 
George  Blake." 

She  declines  further  eourtshij) — do.  •  not  oven  ask 
lier  adorer  in,  and  dismisses  him  summarily  enouj^h. 

"I  wish  you  would  go.  I  don't  want  to  talk.  I  am 
tired  to  death — oh,  so  tired  !  so  tired  !"  drawing  a  long, 
liard  breath.  "I  was  up  nearly  all  last  night.  I  will 
go  in  and  go  to  bed." 

"And  you  will  think  of  it,  Joanna?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  will  think  of  it.  I  would  like  to  go  to 
New  York.  I  cannot  endure  my  life  hero  much 
longer." 

"  And  I  may  come  soon  again  ?" 

"  Come  whenever  you  like,"  she  says,  half  impa- 
tiently, lialf  indifferently.  "I  suppose  I  ought  to  feci 
pleased,  I  have  so  few  friends,  but  I  don't.  If  I  ever 
run  away  with  you,  yon  will  be  sorry  for  it  all  the  rest 
of  your  life." 


iiil 


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162    IN  WITICTI  JOATfTJ'A   CAPS  THE   CLIMAX. 

It  is  an  ominous  prodiction,  and  ho  thinks  of  it  with 
bittcM-ness  of  .spirit  in  after  days.  But  the  ghimour  is 
ui)on  liim  now  ;  lie  would  not  liave  liis  eyes  open  if  lie 
could. 

"  I  will  risk  it,"  he  answers,  fervently.  "  I  will  risk 
all  thitigs,  so  that  you  come." 


* 


* 


Three  days  after  this,  Mrs.  AbboU  announces  a  sec- 
ond change. 

"  The  week  after  next,"  she  says,  "  Leo,  and  >  y  son 
and  I  are  going  to  New  Yoik  to  spend  a  month  wiiii 
the  Ventnors.  The  only  dilTerenec  it  will  mike  to 
you,  Joanna,  is  that  you  will  go  to  Miss  Rice's  cottage 
for  your  daily  lessons,  instead  of  coming  here." 

Joanna  listens  almost  apathetically.  Yes,  the  only 
difference.  And  yet  she  is  conscious  of  a  pang  in  lis- 
tening to  the  lady's  calmly-kind  words.  She  loves 
Mrs,  Abbott,  and  she  loves  so  few — so  few. 

She  goes  home  that  evening,  home  to  Sloaford's,  and 
no  prescience  tells  her  it  is  for  the  last  time — the  very 
last  time,  forever.  She  has  no  intention  of  running 
away  with  George  Blake  ;  she  thinks  as  little  of  him 
as  of  the  dry  twigs  that  snap  und(  r  her  feet. 

She  feels  wearied  and  aimless — the  feeling  is  grow- 
ing upon  her  day  by  day.  She  saunters  listlessly  along, 
after  a  fashion  very  unlike  her  naturally  swift,  strong, 
springy  walk. 

What  is  the  use  of  feeling  sorry  Mrs.  Abbott  is 
going  away  ?  What  is  the  use  of  feeling  sorry  for 
anything — loving  anything?     It  is  only  added  pain. 

It  is  a  perfect  January  evening — cold,  sparkling, 
clear.  There  is  snow  on  the  ground,  white  and  unie- 
filed,  here  in  tliis  woodland  path — feathery  snow  on 


IN   WlllCn   JOANNA    CAPS   THE   CLIMAX.     163 


m\ 


the  black,  bare  boughs.  A  brilliant  sky  is  above,  pale 
blue,  rich  with  HUiisct  tijits,  pearl,  ruby,  orange,  opal 
paling  slowly  to  silvery  pfray.  There  is  no  wind.  It 
is  a  sparkling  January  gem,  set  in  hazy  mist.  She 
reaches  the  house,  takes  one  last  wistful  look  at  all 
that  loveliness  of  sky   and  earth,  and  goes  in.     The 


iiy 


d)led,  all  but  old  Gih 


Th 


di 


[ire  assemi 
cussing  some  matter  with  considerable  eagerness. 

"She  won't  do  it,"  Liz  is  remarking  ;  "not  if  you 
offered  her  as  mu(;h  again.  She  has  got  all  sorts  of 
8luck-up  notions  since  these  people  have  took  her  in 
hand.     She  won't  go  a  step  ;  you'll  see." 

"  I  ioill  see  I"  growls  Dan  Sleaford  ;  "  and  what  is 
more,  I  will  make  her  j'eel  if  she  refuses.  Set  a  beg- 
gar on  horseback,  indeed  !  The  old  man  ought  to 
knowed  better  than  ever  let  her  go." 

"  If  she  hadn't  gone,  neither  you  nor  Watjen  would 
want  her  now,"  remarks  Jud. 

"  Hush  !"  says  Lora  ;  "  here  she  is  !"  and  the  con- 
versation immediately  stops. 

She  glanced  at  them  carelessly,  and  throws  off  her 
jacket  and  hat.  There  is  always  plenty  for  her  to  do 
when  she  gets  home  ;  but,  for  a  wonder,  neither  of  the 
girls  issue  orders  now.   There  is  a  pause — Dan  breaks  it. 

"  Look  here,  Jo,"  he  begins,  in  a  wheedling  tone, 
"  I've  got  some  good  news  for  you.  Here's  a  chance 
for  you  to  turn  an  honest  penny  at  last.  You'd  like 
to  earn  some  pocket-money,  wouldn't  you?" 

She  looks  at  him  distrustfully,  and  does  not  answer. 
Rough  Dan  Sleaford,  in  this  lamb-likt  mood,  is  a  little 
more  to  be  suspected  than  in  his  natural  state.  He  is 
a  younger  copy  of  his  father — coarseness,  cruelty, 
drunkenness  included. 


I 


»■  I 


■  I 


!  I  ' 


!  I 


164    IN   WHICH   JOANNA   CAPS   THE    CLIMAX. 


■I 


"  You  know  Wiitjen's  ?  You've  heard  of  Wat- 
jen's?"  lie  says,  in  the  same  insinuating  tone;  *'hini 
as  keeps  tlie  lager-bier  garden  and  concert  hall  up  the 
village?  He's  lately  come  from  New  York,  you  know, 
and  does  as  they  do  it  there." 

Yes,  she  has  heard  of  Watjen's — a  low  drinking 
place,  where  the  roughs  of  Bi'ightbrook  most  do  con- 
gregate, and  where  the  lowest  of  both  sexes  perform 
for  the  amusement  of  the  smokers,  and  drinkers,  and 
bummers  of  the  place,     SI  e  nods  shortly. 

"  Well — he's  an  out-and-out  go.xi  fellow  is  Watjen, 
and  he's  heerd  of  your  singin' — how  you  can  tip  'em 
French  and  Dutch  songs  as  easy  as  wink,  and  play  tho 
pianny  like  everything.  Well — (mind  you,  the  l>t'st 
singers  of  New  York  come  and  sing  for  him  ;  the 
liighest-toned  sort  o'  ladies  !) — Watjen  wants  to  en- 
gage you.  He'll  give  you  one-fifty  a  night,  and  I'll 
drive  you  over  and  back  every  evenin'.     There  !" 

Dan  closes  th.is  brilliant  offer  with  a  flourish.  To 
do  ITerr  Watjen  justice,  he  has  offered  double  that 
amount  for  each  night,  with  the  promise  of  an  increase, 
should  Joanna  ilnd  favor  in  the  eyes  of  his  patrons. 
But  Dan  judges  it  is  not  well  to  dazzle  her  with  the 
whole  splendid  truth.     Joanna  sits  mute  as  a  fish. 

"  Well  !"  he  cries,  "  don't  ye  hear  !  One-fif'  y  a 
night  to  do  what  you  darn  please  with  !     D'ye  bfjar?" 

"  I  hear." 

"  Why  don't  ye  answer,  then  ?"  Dan's  ^'^oice  and 
temper  are  rising.  The  girls  exchange  .(<rgf  vvating, 
I-told-you-so  smiles.  "  I  want  ae  answer,  iw  i  yes  or 
no  ?" 

"  It  is  no." 

She  says  it  so  composedly,  that  for  a  moment  he 


IN   WITICII  JOANNA    CAPS   THE   CLIMAX.     lQt> 

cannot  take  in  tbe  full  force  of  t!ie  refus?>l.  He  gives 
a  gasp,  and  sits  with  his  mouth  open. 

"  Wlia-a-a-t !" 

"I  say  no.  I  wouldn't  sing  in  Watjen's  beer  gar- 
don  for  a  thousand  dollars  a  night — for  ten  thousand 
dollars  a  night !  I  wouldn't  set  foot  in  it  to  save  his 
life  and  yours  !" 

There  is  no  mistaking  this  time.  Her  voice  rinjjfs 
with  scorn,  and  she  turns  to  leave  the  kitchen.  Dan 
Sleaford  leaps  to  his  feet  like  a  tiger,  and  seizes  her 
by  the  arm. 

"  Say  tiiat  again,  d you  !"  he  cries,  hoarse  with 

passion — "  say  it  again  !" 

She  looks  at  him  unflinchingly,  her  eyes  flashing 
fire — literally  flashing  fire. 

"  I  wouldn't  go  to  save  your  neck  from  the  gal- 
lows," she  says,  between  her  teeth,  "  where  it  is  due  !" 

He  waUs  for  no  more.  The  array  of  horsevvhi})S 
from  which  Giles  was  wont  to  sel'^ct  for  her  benefit  is 
still  there.  He  seizes  one,  blind  with  fury  and  drink  ; 
there  is  a  sharp  hissing  through  the  air,  and  it  de- 
scends. It  rises  and  fails  again,  quick  as  light.  Then, 
with  a  scream  of  passion,  pain,  rage,  that  those  who 
hear  never  forget,  she  turns  upon  him.  In  that  mo- 
ment a  mad  power  possesses  her — she  is  stronger  than 
he.  Siie  wrenches  the  whip  out  of  his  grasp,  lifts  it — 
the  butt-end  this  time — and  brings  it  down  with  all 
the  force  of  fury  across  his  head.  It  lays  it  open — the 
whip  has  a  heavy  handle  ;  a  rain  of  blood  pours  over 
his  eyes,  and  blinds  him.  lie  relaxes  his  hold,  stag- 
gers backward  blindly,  md  falls.  There  is  a  simul- 
taneous shriek  and  rush,  Joanna  flings  the  whip  into 
the  midst  of  them,  and  flies. 


'        9  1 

J>  s     ^  1 


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■  j  p 

ii 


li    !l 


160 


IN    WHICH   .lOANNA    liUNS    AWAY. 


'  t 


U  ( 


i!i 


She  is  bosido  herself — slio  knows  nol  wli.il  slio  liaa 
doiu',  DP  whither  she  is  Ljoinuf.  She  rusiies  on  like  a 
mail  thiiiu,  lu'edhvss  of  all  ohstaeles,  and  falls  prostrate 
at  last  on  the  edjjje  of  l)I;u'k's  Dam.  As  a  htuit(d 
animal  flies  iiistinetively  to  its  lair,  so  her  feet  have 
carried  lu>r  here,  and  here  she  falls,  pantinix,  spent,  for 
the  time  beinL?  perfectly  insane.  .lud  Sleaford  has 
often  prc<iicte(i  that  she  will  mnrdcr  some  of  them, 
and  Jud's  prediction  seems  to  have  come  true  at  last. 


♦♦»■ 


CIIAPTER  IV. 

IN   WIIICII  JOANNA    RUNS    AWAY. 

OW  lo;i[^  she  licvS  she  cannot  tell.  A  panic  of 
horror  and  despair  at  herself  and  the  deed 
she  has  done,  tills  her.  lias  she  murdered 
him?  She  has  threatened  often  enou<]jh 
to  kill  some  of  them  in  her  ungovernable  bursts  of 
temper,  if  they  will  not  let  her  alone.  lias  she 
done  it  at  last  ?  It  is  not  sorrow  that  stirs  her,  nor 
fear  ;  it  is  a  panic  of  darkest  despair  ami  misery  such 
as  in  all  her  miserable  life  she  has  never  felt  before. 
She  crouches  there  in  the  snow,  feeling  no  cold,  numb 
soul  and  body.  A  hurried  step  crunches  over  the 
frozen  ground.  There  is  an  exclamation  ;  a  hand 
touches  her  shoulder,  and  strives  to  lift  her  head. 

"  Joanna  !"  a  breathless  voice  says  ;  "Joanna,  what 
is  this?" 

It  is  a  friendly  voice.    She  lifts  her  stricken,  despair- 
ing eyes  to  a  friendly  face.     The  sight  breaks  the  tor- 


IN    WHICH   JOANNA    liUNS    AWAY. 


167 


])or  of  fipjony  ;  nhv  springs  to  her  foc^t,  juul  flings  her 
jirnis  about  liis  lU'ck. 

"(icorgi'  llliikc!  !"  slio  cries,  willi  a  choking  sob. 
"(TC'orge- J51ak(' !  (icorgc   IJlake  !" 

Tho  young  fellow  holds  her  to  him — pity,  terror, 
blank  conslemat ion  in  his  face*. 

" J<ianiia,  what  is  all  this?  What  have  you  been 
doing  y  What  has  tliat — that  brute  been  <loing  to 
you?  Do  you  know  they  say  that  you" — lie  chokes 
over  the  words — "that  you  have  killed  him?" 

She  gives  a  gasp,  and  still  clings  hold  of  him.  Tlio 
whole  world  seems  sli|)ping  away  ;  slie  se(!ms  to  statnl 
in  the  wi<b^  univ«'rse  alone  in  her  <lesolation,  witli  only 
this  sinarle   friend. 

"1  have  been  to  th(^  house,"  he  goes  on  ;  "all  is 
confusion  there.  Jud  has  gone  for  a  <h)etor.  'IMierc 
is  blood  on  the  floor,  and  on  the  whip-liandle  they  say 
you  struck  him  with.  He  is  lying,  bleeding  still,  and 
8tunned,  on  the  settee  in  tlie  kitclien.  '^Fhe  girls  say 
you  have  killed  him.  Oh  !  Joanna,  speak,  and  tell  me 
what  it  is  !" 

She  trios  to  do  so.  Iler  words  are  broken  and  in- 
coherent, but  ho  manages  to  get  at  the  story — tlie 
provocation,  the  attack,  the  reprisal.  His  eyes  fla.sh 
with  honest  indignation. 

"The  brute  !  the  cowardly  scoundrel  !  You  served 
liim  right,  Joanna — you  acted  in  self-defense.  Even 
if  he  is  killed,  which  I  don't  believe,  you  have  served 
him  right.  Hut  he  will  not  die.  A  beast  like  that 
stands  a  great  deal  of  killing.  Don't  shake  so,  my 
dear  ;  don't  wear  that  haggard  face — it  will  be  all 
right.  I  tell  you  it  is  only  what  you  jught  to  have 
done  long  ago.     The  black,  sullen  dog !  to  take  hia 


*  .1 


m 


r  1 


It 


M 


''ni 


M 


. 


i  I 


;■ 


■1  I 


'    I 


,1^ 


!   '( 


t 
i 

! 

I   ! 

I 
,  f 


;  I 
I  ! 


;  i 


1 


168 


IN   WHICH   JOANNA    RUNS    AWAY. 


horsowljip  to  you  !"  He  grinds  his  teeth.  "I  hope  he 
will  bear  the  mark  of  your  blow  to  his  dying  day  !" 

She  slips  out  of  his  arms,  and  sits  down  on  a  fallen 
log,  lier  hands  clasping  her  knees,  after  her  old  fash- 
ion, that  miserable,  hunted  look  never  leaving  lier  eyes. 

"  I  knew  you  would  come  liere,"  the  young  man 
goes  on,  seating  himself  beside  her  ;  "  it  is  always  your 
sanctuary  in  troubled  times,  my  poor  Joanna.  Oh,  my 
dear,  my  dear  !  my  poor,  ill-used,  suffering  girl !  if  I 
could  only  take  your  place,  and  endure  all  this  for 
you  !" 

She  holds  out  her  hand  to  him  silently.  He  is  so 
good,  so  leal,  her  one  loyal  friend  and  knight.  Great 
slow  tears  well  up,  and  soften  the  blank  anguish  of 
her  hopeless  eyes. 

"  I  will  tell  you  what  I  will  do,"  he  says,  after  a 
pause.  "  I  feel  sure  the  fellow  will  not  die — these 
venomous  reptiles  are  so  tenacious  of  life — still,  we  both 
feel  anxious.  If  you  wUl  wait  liere,  I  will  go  back  to 
the  house  and  find  out.  I  will  return  and  tell  you  the 
truth — the  worst  certainty  is  better  than  suspense. 
Only  promise  me" — he  clasps  the  cold  hand  he  holds 
hard — "  you  will  not  do  anything — anything  rash  while 
I  am  gone." 

He  looks  toward  the  pond,  lying  dark  and  stagnant 
under  the  ev'ening  sky;  then  his  troubled  eyes  seek  her 
face. 

"  Promise  me,  Joanna,"  he  says, "  you  will  stay  here 
until  I  return." 

"  I  promise,"  she  says,  and  he  knows  she  will  keep 
her  word. 

He  rises  instantly,  and  without  a  moment's  delay 
starts  off  on  his  mission. 


IN   WIIICII   JOANNA    RUNS   AWAY. 


161) 


She  keops  lior  word  to  tlie  letter.  She  sits  as  he 
lias  left  her,  never  even  stirring  until  he  returns.  The 
last  opal-tinted  gleam  of  sunset  dies  away,  the  frosty 
January  stars  come  thickly  out,  the  night  wind  rises 
bleakly,  the  frogs  croak  dismally  down  in  the  fetid 
dejtths  of  their  slimy  pools.  She  does  not  stir;  apathy 
siujceeds  agony;  she  hardly  feels  ;  she  is  benumbed, 
stupefied — she  neither  cares  nor  fears  longer. 

Presently,  but  it  is  a  long  time,  too,  the  footsteps 


crunch  once  more   over 


the  f 


rozen  snow,  an( 


I  G 


eol 


«e 


Blake  comes  rapidly  forw.ud.  One  look  at  his  face 
tells  his  news — it  is  bright,  eager,  smiling  ;  his  step  is 
alert  and  buovant. 

"All  right,  Joanna,"  he  calls,  gayly.  "It  is  as  1 
said;  the  fellow  is  going  to  live  to  grace  the  gallows 
yet.  It  is  an  ugly  gash,  and  has  let  him  a  lot  of  blood 
— as  much  as  if  he  were  a  bullock — but  it  is  bandaged 
up  now,  and  he's  asleep.  I  heard  the  doctor  tell  him," 
says  George,  laughing,  "  it  was  the  best  thing  could 
have  happened  to  him;  it  had  probably  saved  him  a 
fit  of  apoplexy,  and  tliat  he  ought  to  keep  you  as  a  sort 
of  family  leech,  to  break  his  head  at  intervals.  'It  is 
very  bad  blood,'  says  the  doctor,  '  and  you're  the  bet- 
ter for  losing  a  gallon  or  two  of  it.'  " 

George's  laugh  rings  out  boyishly;  the  relief  is  so 
unutterable. 

But  she  does  not  look  glad,  she  does  not  speak,  she 
does  not  smile.  She  sits  quite  still,  looking  straight 
before  her,  at  the  pale,  snow-lit,  star-lit  landscape. 

His  face,  too,  grows  grave  as  he  regards  her. 
And  now,  Jo,"  be  says,  resuming  his  seat  beside 
her,  "  what  next  ? 
8 


« 


» 


m 


f  s    ( 


I 

1  ; 


:   )■ 


:i . 


. . 


Hi 


'.;  '   • 


l'  !  i 


'   ^  • 


> 


I  ' 


•jlF 


170 


IN   WHICH   JOANX.V    liUXS   AWAY. 


lie  lias  to  repeat  the  question  before  she  seems  to 
hear,  then  the  blank  gaze  turns  to  his  face. 

"You  can!iot  go  back  there,"  lie  says,  and  ho  sees 
her  slirink  and  slunlder  at  the  tlionght.  "  You  cannot 
stay  here.     Then  what  are  you  to  do?" 

Siie  makes  no  reply. 

In  all  the  wide  world,  he  wonders,  as  lie  watches 
lier,  is  there  another  creature  so  forlorn,  so  homeless  as 
this? 

"  Perhaps  you  will  go  to  Abbott  Wood  ?"  lie  sug- 
gests. And  at  that  she  linds  her  voice,  and  breaks  out 
with  a  great  despairing  cry. 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  no  !  Never  there  !  Xever  there  any 
more  !  Oh,  what  will  Mrs.  Abbott  say  ?  Oh  me  ! 
oh  me  !  oh  me  !  " 

lie  sits  in  silent  distress.  Great  sobs  tear  and  rend 
their  way  up  from  her  lieart.  She  weeps  wildly  aloud. 
lie  has  never  seen  Joanna  cry  before — few  ever  have 
— and  the  tortured  sobs  shake  him  through  and 
through. 

"Don't,  Joanna  !"  he  says.  "Oh,  do  not !  I  can- 
not bear  to  hear  you.     Don't  cry  like  that  !" 

As  well  ask  the  tide  not  to  flow.  Repressed  nature 
will  Ijave  its  revenge  ;  she  must  weep  or  die.  She 
sobs  on  and  on,  until  the  paroxysm  spends  itself,  and 
she  stops  from  sheer  exhaustion.  A  jealous  l)ang 
wrings  George  IjJake's  heart — how  she  loves  this  ]\rrs. 
Abbott !  But  still  the  question  is  unanswered — what 
is  to  be  done — and  the  night  wears  on.  George's  watch 
points  to  ten.     He  holds  it  out  to  her  in  silent  appeal. 

"  Wait,"  she  says.     "Let  me  think.    Let  me  think  !" 

The  hysterics  have  done  her  good  ;  her  apathy  is 
swept  away  ;  she  is  fully  aroused  to  a  sense  of  her 


IN    WTIICII    JOAXNA    RUN'S    AWAY.  171 

situation — to  the  importance  of   that  question — wli.it 
next  ? 

She  sits  and  thinks.  TnipossibU;  to  rctnni  to  Sica- 
ford's — jjorror  tills  her  at  the  thought.  i\Ioro  itnpos- 
sihle  still  to  go  to  Abbott  Wood  after  this  terrible 
deed.  Besides,  even  if  she  could,  even  if  Mrs.  Abbott 
would  consent  to  overlof)k  her  almost  being  a  murder- 
ess, Giles  Sleaford  would  never  let  her  stay.  She 
would  be  brought  back  to  the  farm  by  force — then, 
what  is  to  be  done? 

She  looks  up  at  last  ;  her  black  eyes  turn  to  the 
face  of  her  companion,  and   fix  there  in  such  a  long 
searching  stare  that  h(»  is  disconcerted. 


o> 


« 


What   is    it,    Joanna?"    he    asks.       "You    k 


now 


there  is  nothinjx  in  all  the  world  I  would  not  do  fou 


'OU 


5» 


(( 


(( 


(( 


Nbf/imr/P"  she  tersely  repeats. 

Nothing  that  man  can  do." 

You  asked  me  the  other  day  to  marry  yon.    Will 


you  marry  me  now 


J" 


"Will  I?"  his  face  lights  up  with  quick  joy — he 


catches  both  her  hands  ;  ^^  will  I  ?     Oh,  Joanna  ! 


» 


(( 


Will  you  take   me  to  New  York  to-night,  and 


marrv  me  to-morrow 


'?" 


Sharp  work  !"  he  savs,  "  but  even  tliat 


ays 


may  be  ac- 


cora|)lished.  I  will  take  you  to  New  York,  and-  I  will 
marry  you  !  Joanna  !  Joanna  !  how  happy  you  have 
mad 


e  me 


"  I !"  she  says,  mournfully,  "  I  make  any  one  happy  ! 
Oh  !  George  Blake,  you  will  hate  mo  one  day  for  this  ! 
I  ought  not  to  ask  it — I  am  a  wret-jh — almost  a  mur- 
deress— not  fit  to  be  any  good  mau's  wife.  And  you 
are  good.     Oh  !  I  ought  not !  I  ought  not  !" 


■\-i.: 


V    i 


i  . 


I 


III 


,'  I 


.  jiili 


-    I 


,  i; 


'  VA\\\ 


\  i 


172 


IN    WIIK'ir   JO  A  XX  A    JUJS9   AWAY. 


"You  ouirlit — von  iniist !"  lio  oxcliiims,  alarmed 
**  Wh:it  nonsiMisc  you  arc  talkiii<^',  Jo!  Murderess, 
indeed  !  The  pity  is  you  did  not  ijfive  the  cur  twice  as 
much.  Ah  !  what  care  I  will  take  of  you,  Joanna, 
how  happy  I  will  make  you.  You  will  forget  this 
wretched  life  and  these  iniserablo  peoi)le.  You  shall 
have  my  whoh?  heart  and  life." 

"And  your  mother,"  she  says,  in  the  same  mourn- 
ful voice,  "what  will  she  say?  And  your  aunt — u;ood 
jNIiss  Rice?  Oh!  you  foolish  fellow!  Take  me  to 
New  York,  hut  do  ftot  marry  me.  Let  me  earn  my 
own  livini>: — I  am  vounrj,  and  strong;,  and  willini;,  and 
used  to  hard  work.  I  will  be  a  kitchen-maid — any- 
thin<r.  No  life  can  be  so  hard,  so  sordid,  as  the  life  I 
lead  here." 

"I  will  marry  you,"  he  says,  "I  refuse  to  release 
you.  You  said  you  would  be  my  wife  and  you  must 
— I  cannot  live  without  you.  Oh  !  Joanna,"  llie  young 
fellow  cries  out  in  a  burst  of  passion,  "  you  *orture  me  1 
Cannot  you  see  that  I  love  you?" 

She  shakes  her  head. 

"  No,"  she  says,  "  I  cannot  see  it,  nor  understand  it. 
What  is  there  in  me — plain,  red-haired,  ill-tempered 
Joanna,  to  love?     And  I  do  not  care  for  youy 

"  That  will  come  in  time.  I  will  be  so  good  to  you, 
Bo  fond  of  you,  you  will  not  be  able  to  help  it.  Say  no 
more  about  it,  Joanna.  I  claim  you  and  will  have 
you." 

"  Very  well,"  she  answers,  resignedly;  "  remember, 
whatever  comes,  I  have  warned  you.  Now  settle  all 
the  rest  yourself.     I  trust  you — I  am  in  your  hands." 

"And  I  will  be  true  to  your  trust,"  he  says,  fer- 
yently,  "  so  help  me  Heaven  !  " 


IN    WHICH   .TOANXA    IH'XS    AWAY. 


173 


IIo  lilts  ono  of  her  hiinds,  tlio  rod,  work-lianlcfU'd 
liands,  to  \\\h  lips.  And  tlion  for  a  little  tlu-y  sit  iu 
sili'in'c. 

If  is  a  strange  betrothal — the  liour  of  nij^ht,  the 
gloomy  scone,  while  snow,  blaek  woods,  dea<l  sileiiee, 
starry  sky,  and  Jilack's  Dam,  evil  and  ominous,  at  their 
feet.  All  (Jeoi-Lio  DIakc'.s  lite  \o\\<r  that  picture  stands 
out,  distinct  from  all  others,  in  liis  memory — ho  and 
this  strange  uirl  who  fascinates  him,  sittinLT  there,  tho 
only  creatures,  it  Hoems,  left  in  all  the  world  I 

"Let  me  see,"  ho  says,  returninjjf  to  the  practical, 
"there  is  no  up-train  to  the  city  bofoie  live  o'clock, 
'^I'iiat  is  the  one  I  i^enerally  ^o  hy,  when  I  sjx'iid  a 
nitrlil  in  l»ri<>hthrook.  It  is  now  past  eleven  :  how  ar(^ 
we  to  get  through  the  intervening  hours?  You  will 
perish  if  wo  stay  here." 

"And  I  must  have  something  to  wear,"  says  Joan 
na,  glancing  at  her  »lress.  It  is  the  grimy,  well-woru 
old  alpaca.  "  Let  me  see.  They  are  not  likely  to  ssit 
up  to-night  with  him,  are  they?" 

"Not  in  tlio  least  likely,  I  shonl«T  say.  He  is  all 
right  ;  was  snoring  like  a  grampus  whou  I  left.   Why?" 

"I  must  get  into  the  house,  and  get  something  to 
wear.     I  cannot  go  to  New  York  like  this." 

He  see  that  she  cannot,  but  still  ho  looks  anxious 
and  doubtful. 

"  It  is  a  risk,"  ho  says. 

"N(/t  at  all,  if  they  do  not  sit  up.  T  can  always 
get  in,  and  once  in  bed  I  am  not  afraid  of  t/irft  family. 
They  sleep  as  if  for  a  wager.  If  is  a  risk  I  inust  rtm. 
I  must  have  a  better  dress,  a  shawl  and  hat.  And  I 
can  wait  indoors  until  it  is  time  to  start  for  the  sta- 
tion." 


i  M  :.3 


V ; 


i 


'II 


.11 


1  ! 


174 


T\    WHICH   JOANNA    liUNS   AWAY. 


"All  liour  will  take  us,"  IJlako  says.  "C'otno  thon, 
Joaiifin,  let  us  bo  up  and  doing.  I  sliall  got  into  a 
fevor  waifing,  if  wo  stay  lioro." 

Tlioy  go — starling  on  tlio  first  stage  of  that  journey 
that  is  to  lead — who  oan  toll  whore? 

It  is  nearly  inidnigiit  when  llioy  reacli  the  Rod 
Farm.  No  sign  of  rooeiit  trago<1y  is  tljoro — quiot  slum- 
ber evidently  reigns.  It  is  better  even  than  they  iiad 
dared  to  hope. 

"Where  will  you  wait?"  the  girl  asks.  "It  will 
be  cold  for  you." 

"I  will  walk  about,"  ho  answers.  "The  night  is 
mild,  an<l  my  ovcreoat  is  proof  against  frost-bite. 
Only  do  not  be  caught,  Joanna,  or  change  your  mind, 
or  fall  asleep.  I  will  never  forgive  you  if  you  fail  me 
now  !" 

"I  will  not  fail,"  she  says,  firmly.  "Before  four  I 
will  be  with  you  again." 

Slie  leaves  him,  and  admits  herself  after  her  old 
fashion — bolls  and  bars  are  few  and  far  between  at 
Sloaford's.  All  is  still.  She  takes  off  her  shoes  and 
creeps  uj)  stairs  and  listens. 

All  still. 

Now  the  question  arises, what  shall  she  wear?  She 
does  not  want  to  disgrace  George  Blake.  Nearly  all 
the  things  Mrs.  Abbott  has  given  her  are  in  her  room 
at  Abbott  Wood — Liz  and  Lora  immediately  confis- 
cating to  their  use  anything  attractive  she  brings  to 
the  farm.  She  has  absolutely  nothing  of  her  own  fit 
to  put  on.  No — but  the  other  girls  have  !  Joanna 
has  not  the  slightest  scruple  in  the  matter.  They  take 
everything  of  hers  ;  it  is  a  poor  rule  that  will  not  work 
both  ways.     She  will  help   herself  from  Lora's  ward- 


IN   WHICH   .lOAXXA    IIUXS    AWAY. 


17; 


rolic  !  They  arc  of  the  s.inio  lici^lit.  Lora  is  a  "fiiio 
gill,"  and  stout  ououj^jh  to  niakc  two  of  siiili  a  slip  as 
.Toaiuia,  but  fit  docs  not  sij^tiify.  SIu'  softly  opens  the 
%vardr«d»c',  and  hci^ins  operations.  It  is  a  s.nall  cImscI 
ndjoininuj  tluMr  bcdrooni,  and  dark  as  a  pot-kc!  ;  hut 
bIu'  lias  brought  a  candle-end  witli  her  from  the  kitchen. 
ISho  lii^hts  it  now  and  suts  to  work. 

As  well  take  the  best  wlicn  slic  is  about  it !  Thcro 
blinds  the  new  black  siik  suit,  i^otti'U  up  expressly  for 
]S'cw  Vear's  Day,  and  worn  on  that  occasion  only.  She 
t;il<es  it  down  from  its  \>r[f.  Hero  is  Lora's  Sunday 
bat,  a  black  velvet  beauty,  with  crimson  roses  and 
pnowy  plume.  'J'o  I  wist  out  this  latter  appendage  is 
the  woik  of  a  second — tin;  red  roses  for  the  present 
nnist  staiub  Now  she  wants  a  wrap.  Here  is  a  cloth 
jacket,  handsomely  trimmed  ;  she  unhooks  it.  'riien, 
as  she  is  movinijf  away,  a  last  ai'ticle  catches  her  eye. 
It  is  a  crimson  wool  shawl,  a  rich  and  glowing  wrap, 
and, the  pride  of  Liz's  soul. 

Sonjc  faint  spirit  of  dlnJilfyie,  more  than  actual 
need,  makes  her  add  this  to  the  lieaj).  She  returns  to 
the  kitchen,  her  arms  tilled  with  her  s])oils.  She  has 
already  secured  one  or  two  little  jjfifts  of  Mrs.  Abbott's 
and  Lucj's.  A  j;old  breasti)in,  a  pearl  and  rui)y  riiij^, 
and  her  very  last  New  Year's  gift — a  little  gold  watch 
and  chain — the  watch  Mrs.  Abbott's  present,  the  chain 
Geoffrey's,  the  ring  Leo's.  And  now  in  the  warm 
kitchen    slie   arrays    herself    deliberately    in    pilfered 


1 


1^1  um 


es,  w 


ith  a  'jrt  of  wicked  zest  in   the  tremendous 


uproar  there  will  be  to-morrow.     Dan's  mishap  will  bo 
nothing  to  this — Liz  and  Lora  will  go  straight  out  of 


their 


senses. 


(( 


It  is   not  stealing,"  the  girl  says  to  herself. 


<( 


I.!. 


I< 


I  \ 


176 


IN   WIIICJI   JOANXA    KUNS    AWAY. 


liave  worked  for  thorn  all  my  life  ;  I  have  earncMl  those 
thiiiirs  ton  tiiiios  over.  And  thov  havo  taken  lots  of 
mine — Mrs.  Ai)botl's  gifts.  I  havo  a  right  to  take 
what  I  want." 

Whether  or  no,  they  are  taken,  and  will  be  kept. 
Once  dressed  she  seats  herself,  an<l  waits  impatiently 
for  the  oloek  to  strike  four.  She  is  eager  to  b.^  off,  to 
turn  her  back  forever  u]M)n  this  hated  house,  these 
hated  pe.)ple — to. begin  the  worhl  an(;w.  A  new  life  is 
dawning  fui  her  ;  whatever  it  ijrings  it  can  bring 
nothing  half  so  bad  as  tiie  life  she  is  leaving.  New 
\ork  !  the  thought  of  that  great  eity  and  its  possibili- 
ties dazzles  hor.  Of  (Jeorge  IJhik*'  she  thinks  little. 
He  is,  perforce,  i)art  of  that  new  lifi',  but  she  would 
rather  ho  were  not.  ISiie  does  not  care  for  him  ;  he 
tries  her  with  his  bovish  fondness  and  insipid  love- 
nniking.  Still,  she  cannot  do  without  him — so  Mrs. 
George  Blake,  willy  nilly,  it  seems  she  must  bo. 

One,  two,  three,  four  !  from  the  old  wooden  Con- 
necticut clock.  She  draws  a  long  breath  of  relief, 
rises,  makes  her  way  out,  as  she  niado  it  in. 

Thy  night  has  cha^icred — the  morn'uo:  is  dark, 
damp,  disnnil.  (Tcorge  Blake  is  waiting,  poor  faithful 
sentinel.  He  comes  up,  his  teetli  chattering,  white 
rime  on  mustaclie  and  hair. 

"At  last,"  he  says,  wearily  ;  "give  you  my  honor, 
Joanna,  I  thought  the  time  wouhl  never  come  What 
a  night  this  lias  been  !     Shall  you  ever  forget  it?" 

She  does  not  speak  ;  she  looks  back  darkly  at  the 
house  she  is  leaving. 

"  Goo(l-by,  you  dreary  prison,"  she  says.  "I  may  be 
miserable  in  the  time  that  is  to  come,  but  I  can  never 
again  be  as  miserable  as  I  have  been  in  you.'' 


IN    Win<  II    .lOANN'A    UUXS    AWAY. 


177 


<< 


Yon  sli.ill  nevt^K  be  niiserablo 


mo. 


.1 


oaiiii.'i 


V"  1 


10  says,  ri'|»f().t< 


lil'ull 


Can  you  not  trtist 


}• 


"Coino  I""  is  \\vr  only  answ^T.  lie  draws  li^r  liand 
thi'oni^li  his  arm,  and  tlh'y  an-  otF,  walking  tieetiy,  and 
in  siliMUK',  along  tJK.'  bleak,  windy  r<ns$*\. 

It  wants  a  quarter  ot"  live  wlven  they  rea<di  the  sta- 
tion. It  is  quite  deserted,  but  ibvre  m  a  lire  in  the 
waiting-room. 

He  takes  licr  in,  and  socs  for  the  ferst  time  the  silk- 
en robe,  the  velvet  hat,  the  erirnson  siiaAvl. 

"  My  word,  Joanna  !"  he  says,  lar;  /iiing,  "  how  smart 
you  are  !  As  a  bridegroom  cotneih  wiji  of  his  ehain- 
ber !  Where  did  you  raise  ail  tiiis  sui'.erline  tog- 
gery  ?" 

"It  belongs  to  Lora,"  answers  Joanria,  in  tlie  most 
matter-of-fact  tone  )>ossible,  "  all  but  the  siiawl — that 
belongs  to  Liz  !  'I'he  watch  and  bi'ooch  are  my  own. 
I  did  not  want  to  shame  you  by  being  shabby." 

He  stares  at  her,  then  liursls  out,  laugi dug  ;  but  he 
is  not  best  jdeased,  either,  at  these  vague  notions  of 
iiKum  and  twon.  There  is  no  time,  however,  to  re- 
monstrate ;  the  train  rushes  in  almost  immediately, 
and  tlie  instant  it  stops  the  runaways  aie  aboanb 

"  Now  then  !"  George  IJlake  exclaims,  "  we  are  off 
at  last ;  let  thos(!  catch  who  can  !  In  three  liours  we 
will  be  in  New  York, 


5? 


It  is  a  silent  trip.     The  young  fellow  sits  lost  in  a 


lapp 


ream. 


II 


e    w  1 


II 


mar 


J 


oanna. 


'n 


»e 


y 


Wl 


board   in   the    citv   for  a   little,  then    his   mother   wi 


11 
11 

"come  round,"  and  his  wife  can  live  with  her,  while 
he  will  run  down  three  or  four  times  a  week.  By  and 
by  his  salary  will  be  raised,  he  will  become  an  edit<.r 
himself,  he  will  take  a  nice  little  house  over  Brooklyn 
8* 


tM 


II 


178 


IN    WHICH   JOAXNA    RUNS   AWAY. 


way,  with  a  gardon,  a  grape  arlxw,  some  rt»se  trees  and 
geraiiiums,  and  lie  aiul  Joanna  will  live  happily  forever 
after  ! 

That  i8  liis  dream.  For  Joanna,  wliat  does  a/ie 
dream  of  as  slie  sits  beside  him,  her  li])s  compressed, 
a  line  as  of  pain  between  her  eyebiows,  her  eyes  look- 
ing out  at  th(>  gray,  forlorn  dawu.  Nothing  briglit, 
certainly,  with  that  face. 

They  reach  the  city.  The  noise,  the  u])roar,  the 
throng,  the  stofiv  streets,  bewilder  hi'V — she  clings  to 
lier  protector's  arm.  He  has  decided  to  take  her  for 
to-day  to  a  liotel,  and  not  ])resent  lier  to  his  landlady — 
an  austere  lady — until  he  can  present  h 'r  as  his  lawful 
wedded  wife.  So  he  calls  a  "  keb,"and  ihey  are  «lriven 
off  to  an  u])-town  Broadway  hotel. 

"Is  it  always  as  noisy  as  this  ?"  sjje  asks,  in  a  sort 
of  panic.     "  My  head  is  splitting  already." 

"  Oh,  you  will  get  used  to  it,"  he  laughs  ;  "  wc  all 
do.  You  won't  even  hear  it  after  awhile — f  don't. 
Here  we  are.  Now  you  shall  iiave  breakfast,  and  then 
I  will  start  off,  and  hunt  u])  a  clergyman." 

He  squeezes  her  hand,  but  there  is  no  response. 
She  withdraws  it  impatiently,  and  goes  with  him  into 
one  of  the  parlors,  where  George  engages  a  room  for 
his  wife,  and  registers  boldly  as  "  Mr.  and  ]\[rs.  George 
P.  IJlake."  Mrs.  Blake  is  shown  to  her  apartment, 
where  she  washes  her  fa(*e,  smooths  her  hair,  straight- 
ens herself  generally,  and  then  goes  down  with  Mr. 
Blake,  to  breakfast. 

"Now,  Jo,"  he  says,  when  that  repast  is  over,  "you 
will  return  to  your  room,  and  I  will  go  out  and  get 
you  something  to  read,  to  pass  the  time,  for  I  may  1)6 
gone  some  hours.     I  will  fetch  a  parson  with  me  if  ] 


I^    WHICH   JOANNA    HUNS    AWAY. 


179 


can 


if  not,  wc  will  m>  this  ovoninir  bofoie  a  clerii) 


man,  and  be  married.  Try  not  to  feel  lonesome.  In  a 
few  1h  iirs  yon  will  be  my  wife  !" 

Joanna  does  not  look  as  if  there  were  anything  in 
this  prospect  of  a  particnlarly  raptnrons  nature,  bnt 
slie  goes  to  her  room,  and  later  ao(!epts  the  magazines 
ho  brings  lier,  to  while  away  the  honrs  of  his  absence. 
But  it  is  a  long  <lay.  She  yawns  over  tlio  stories  and 
pictures  for  awhile,  then  throws  herself  on  a  sofa,  and 
falls  asieej). 

It  is  late  in  the  afternoon  when  she  awakes. 
George  is  there  to  take  her  to  dinner,  waitii.g  impa- 
tiently. 


(( 


It   is  all   riaht,"  he   tells  her, 


« 


The  Reverend 


Peter  Wiley  is  my  friend  ;  I  have  explniiKMl  to  iiim  as 
much  as  is  necessary,  and  we  are  to  jjfo  to  his  house  at 


aiii"  this  eveninix. 


I 


sliall  wan 


vv 


y 


t  some  one  to  stand  up 
ith  mo,  so  after  dinner  I'll  run  down  to  the  oflice,  if 
Oil  don't  mind  IteiniLr  alone  a  little  longer,  and  <ret  one 


of  our  fellows." 

They    dine,    and    George   again    departs  ;    Jonnna 


once  moi 


e  returns  to  her  o 


wn  r(K)m. 


And  now  it  is 


drawing  awfidly  near — this  great  change  in  her  life — 
she  is  about  to  become  (xeorsxe  Blake's  wife.     As  sho 


SI 

lif 


ts  here  alone,  her  face  buried  in  her  liands,  her  whole 


e  seems  to  rise  up 


before  her — her  whole  dark,  love- 


less, most  mistPible  life.  A  dreadful  feeling  of  sullen, 
silent  anger  possesses  her  as  she  sits  alone  here,  her 
hands  clasped  around  her  knees,  her  eyes  staritig 
straight  before  her,  after  her  usual  crouching,  ungainly 
fashion.  All  the  wrongs  of  her  lifetime  rise  up  b(;fore 
her,  a  dark  and  gloomy  array.  Fatherless,  motherless, 
what  had  she  done  to  be  sent  into  the  world  banned  at 


hi 

* 

f- 

' 

11 

■ill 

!•' 


\       1 


i# 


IT 


r    '  n 


ili: 


iH 


180 


IN    WIIICFI   .JOANNA    HUNS   AWAY. 


her  XQvy  hirtii  ?  Hard  f.iro,  hard  words,  liard  blows, 
oalhs,  kicks,  eu(Ts,  cotislaut  toil,  halt"  naked,  lialf 
frozen,  jc-ers,  scorn,  forc\  cr  and  forever  !  There  it 
stands,  the  hitter,  had  cataloufiie,  never  to  ho  forgotten, 
never  to  V)e  foi'given.  A  lonij;  life-time  of  reprisal  will 
he  t<)o  short  to  wash  white  the  score  her  memory  holds 
against  almost  every  human  creature  she  has  ever 
known. 

And  yot,  stay  !  Not  quite  all — not  George  TJlako, 
poor  foolish  fellow,  who  has  run  away  with  her,  or 
rather  with  whom  ft/ie  has  run  away.  The  tense  lines 
of  hrow  a!id  nioutli  relax  a  little.  It  is  too  had  to 
have  made  him  do  it  ;  lie  will  never  know  wlwit  to  <la 
■with  her  all  the  rest  of  his  life.  He  will  he  sorry  for 
it  presently — she  feels  that.,  although,  perhaps,  /le  does 
not  just  now,  Uut  she  h;i8  not  thought  of  him,  only 
of  herself  ;  it  has  been  her  one  chance  of  escape  from 
that  earthly  hell,  and  she  has  taken  it.  What  is  s/ie 
that  she  should  s])are  any  one  !  After  all,  George 
IJlake  has  asked  her  once,  let  him  "dree  his  own 
M'eird,"  she  will  alter  no  plan  of  hers  out  of  ])ity  for 
him  ;  he  is  useful  to  her,  and  Avlien  his  day  comes  let 
liim 

iShe  stops.  A  quicik  footstep  passes  her  door,  a 
man's  ste[),  a  man's  voice  whistles  a  gay  air.  Both  are 
familiar  ;  th.ev  strike  on  her  heart  like  a  blow.  She 
springs  up  and  flies  to  the  door.  Down  the  long  pas- 
sage a  tall  Hgure  goes.  A  lady  passes  him  ;  the  whis- 
tle ceases,  ho  uncovers  as  she  goes  by  ;  then  ho  too  is 
gone. 

For  a  moment  she  stands  stunned,  her  face  quite 
white,  her  eyes  all  wild  and  wide,  in  a  sort  of  terror, 
her  heart  beatinyr  thick  and  fast.     Then   she  darts  to 


IN    WHICH   JOAXNA    ItllXJ-:    AWAY 


181 


the  win<l(>\v,  and  b'lt  jtist  in  time.  TFc  is  passinuj  out 
lilt!  last  liiilit  of  tlio  cvciiinLT  sky  laHiiiLf  I'lill  upon  hiiti 
— Iiandsomo,  as  usual,  carelessly  elegant,  as  usual — tiui 
dazzling  iniagi!  llial  liiis  always  appealed  so  poweriiilly 
to  this  wild  u^irl's  iniaginalioii — that  has  made  hitn 
from  the  first,  in  her  eyes,  unliko  any  other  man  she 
has  ever  seen.  What  is  tiie  charm?  He  is  only  a 
well-lookinsj^,  well-mantu'ri'd,  well-dressed  young  gen- 
tleman, the  type  of  a  class  that  in  afler  years  shemeels 
"thick  as  leavt's  in  Vallambrosa,"  and  yet,  to  the  last 
day  of  her   life,  something  stamj)s    Frank   Livingston 


as  a  "'  man  of  niei 


anion 


gtl 


HMii  a 


II.     I 


n  one 


i\. 


isliniir 


glance  those  (piick  eyes  take  in  every  detail  of  face, 
and  figure,  and  dress,  even  to  the  rosehud  ajid  gera- 
nium leaf  peeping  out  from  under  his  dark  paletot,  the 
white  ve>t,  the  kid   ijfloves.     There   is  but   titne  for  a 


irlance. 


lie   liijfhts   a  ci 


uar, 


beuk 


ons  a  couDO,  sDi-mLis 


pO,   S}) 


in,  and  is  gone. 

She  sits  down  as  she  lias  been  sitting  before,  but  in 
a  dazed  sort  of  fashion  that  frightens  even  herself. 
She  tries  to  take  up  her  train  of  thought  where  she  has 
dropped  it — in  vain.  A  swift,  incompreliensible  revul- 
sion begins  within  her.  She  will  not  marry  George 
Ulake — no,  no  !  never,  never  !     She  sDriuijfs  ui)   a<rain. 


and  puts  out  her  hands  as  if  to  keep  even  the  i(bja  (►fF. 
She  will  not  marry  George  lilakc — she  will  die  first ! 
How  has  she  ever  thought  of  such  a  thing?  Why  has 
she  ever  come  here?  W^hy  is  she  slaying  here  now? 
If  she  stays  he  will  come  back  and  make  lier  marry 
him.  JNIake  her  !  She  laughs  a  scornful  little  laugh, 
all  by  herself,  at  the  thought.  But  then  ids  pleading 
face  and  wistful  boyish  blue  eyes  rise  before  her.  And 
he  is  so  fond  of  her  so  ridiculously  fond  of  her. 


\  1! 


i  ,     ; 


!! 


lii 


lil 


:|iir 


0: 
'iji 


1  '1,; 

I 

I 
I 


182      IN  AVIIICII  JOANNA  SKEKS  HER  FORTUNE. 

"Psliaw!"  sliG  says  aloud,  impatiently,  "lie  is  9 
fool  to  want  mo.     IIu  will  get  over  it." 

But  she  must  n(»t  stay — it  will  not  do  to  meet  him. 
She  must  have  been  mad  with  miser}'  ever  to  think  of 
marrying  him — /liat/  Alas,  for  George  lilake  !  The 
haughty  head  erects  itself,  the  straight  throat  curves. 
In  one  moment  her  mind  is  made  up,  beyond  power  of 
change.  And  all  by  one  fleeting  glimpse  of  Frank 
Livingston  going  lo  the  o))era. 

8he  puts  on  lu'r  hat — Lora's  hat — pulls  it  well  down 
over  her  face,  throws  the  heavy  crimson  shawl  over 
her  arm,  and  is  ready  to  go.  She  writes  no  line  or 
word  of  far(;well — what  is  there  to  say?  And  she  is 
not  romantic.  Geoi-ge  will  see  that  she  has  gone — 
that  is  enough.  Where  is  she  going?  She  does  not 
know — only — not  to  marry  young  Mr.  J>lake.  She 
\)])ens  the  door,  walks  quickly  down  the  long  corridor, 
her  head  detiantly  erect,  prepaied  to  do  battle  with 
Georji^e  Ijlake  should  thev  meet.  But  she  meets  no 
one.  The  elevator  is  just  descending  ;  she  enters  and 
jd^oes  down.  A  moment  later  and  she  is  out,  nnder  the 
aparkling  New  Year  stars,  alone,  homeless,  penniless, 
in  the  streets  of  New  York. 


-•♦♦- 


CHAPTER   V. 

IN  WHICH   JOANNA   SEEKS   HER   FORTUNE. 

HE  yellow-tinted  twilight  has  given  place  to 
silvery  dark,  lighted  bym  broad  full  moon. 
All  lamps  in    the  great  thoroughfare  are 
alight,    windows    are    blazing    like    great 
jewels.     Her  spirits  rise,  the  fresh  night  wind  is  like 


IN  WHICH  JOANNA  SKKKS   HKR  FOUTUXK.       183 

fftronj^  wino,  the  old  gypsy  instinot  of  froodorn  awakos 
williin  lu'i".  It  is  well  !  SIiu  is  stroiii»',  slio  is  frae! 
Oh  !  blessed  frocdoin,  bt)()n  beyond  all  boons  ol"  earth  ! 
And  for  one  whole  day  and  night  she  has  thonght  of 
resigning  it  for  life-long  bondage  to  George  I>lak(^  ! 
Free  to  do  what  she  ehooses,  j^o  where  she  likes  ;  the 
world  is  all  before  her,  a  great  city  full  of  infinite 
possibilities  is  around  her!  No  man  is  her  tnasier  ; 
DO  man  ever  shall  be  ! 

She  walks  on  and  on,  lier  blood  quickening,  her 
heart  risin<'.  She  coidd  sin<x  aloud  in  this  first  lioiir 
of  her  exultation.  She  is  free  !  her  old  life  !'es  bchmd 
her,  with  its  shame,  its  pain,  forever  and  ever.  She  is 
here  in  the  city  of  her  desire,  the  world  all  before  her 
where  to  choose  ! 

How  brilliant  the  scene  is  to  tliose  country  eyes  ; 
bow  the  lamps  shine,  how  the  great  windows  Hash 
out  !  Jjut  the  roar,  the  rush  of  ma!iy  })enpk'  and 
vehicles  dizzies  and  bewilders  her.  Will  she  indeed 
over  get  used  to  it,  as  George  Blake  says?  IJut  she 
])uts  away  the  thought  of  George  IJlakc  ;  a  hot,  swift 
pang  of  remorse  goes  with  it.  How  cruel  how  un- 
grateful he  will  think  her,  and  "ingratitude  is  the  vice 
of  slaves."  She  will  not  think  of  him  ;  it  is  all  she  can 
do  to  keep  from  having  a  vertigo,  amid  all  this  light 
and  noise. 

Presently  she  becomes  conscious  that  curious  eyes 
are  watcliing  her.  She  does  not  know  it,  but  she  is  a 
cons))icuous  object  even  on  Broadway.  Her  great 
amazed  blacif  eyes,  the  unmistakable  country  stamp 
about  her,  something  out  of  the  common  in  her  eager 
face,  the  brilliant  shawl,  render  her  a  distinct  mark  in 
the  moving  picture. 


,f  > 

'h 

'^ 

.*• 

(     ! 


T 


184     IN  wincii  .lo.wxA  sKKKs  iii;i:  I'oiiTifXE. 


Arxl  tluMi  all  al  once  slio  rt'alizrs  ihaf,  slu>  is  Immuu; 
followed,  thai  a  tuaii  is  close  al  licr  elbow,  lias  been 
for  some  time,  and  is  looki?i<^  down  at  her  wilh  a  sinis- 
te.'  leer,  lie  is  a  biij,  bmly  man,  with  a  red  face,  i\ 
maiiixy,  purple  mustache,  all  nose  and  watch-chain,  lilco 


a. I 


ew 


SI 


le   /^lances    up   at.    him   an 


i^rrily 


lie  on 


ly 


re- 


turns it  with  a  smile  (d'  f'ascinat iii<4  sweetness. 


"You   was  waitin'  lor  me,  my  dear,  wasn't  you?'' 
he  savs,  insimiaiin<^lv. 

She  does  not  reply,  oidy  Inu'ries  on,  her  heart  bcixin- 
ninsjf  to  beat.  A  policeman  passis  and  eyes  the  j)air 
(suspiciously,  but  Joanna  does  nol  know  enouLjh  of  city 
"wavs  to  appt'al  to  him.  She  takes  thesi'  tall  men, 
bound  in  blue  and  brass,  to  be  soldii-rs,  and  is  afraid 
of  tliem.  She  walks  rapidly — so  rapidly,  with  that 
free,  elastic^  sl(>p  slje  has  Iearne<|  in  tri'adintj^  th(^  woods, 
that  her  [)Ursuer  anatheinali/A's  her  un^ler  his  breath. 
She  has  jj;ot  oiT  IJroadway  now,  and  takes  corners  and 
streets  as  they  (H)me,  and  still,  with  a  ])ersever;nK!G 
Avorthy  a  mmdi  better  cause,  her  tormentor  follows. 
He  has  no  breath  left  for  conversation.  He  is  stout, 
his  wind  is  ujone,  he  is  o^.ispinu;  like  a  stranded  Hsh  ;  he 
larjs  a  step  or  two  behind,  and  a  stern  chase  is  always 
a  long  one.  Joanna  is  as  fresh  as  when  she  started. 
Suddenly  slie  turns  round  and  faces  him,  and  some- 
thing in  her  eyes  looks  so  wicked,  so  dangerous,  that 
the  fellow  sto|)s.  The  next  moment  she  has  flown 
round  a  corner  and  disappeared.  There  is  nothing  for 
i  the  owner  of  the  mangy  mustache  but  to  get  on  the 
first  car  and  go  back. 

She  wanders  on  and  on,  glancing  about  her  suspi- 
ciously now,  lest  the  ilorid  gentleman  sJiould  have  suc- 
cessors, but  no  one  troubles  her.     She  wonders   where 


IN  WHICH  .1  )AXNA  HKKKS  IIVM  FOUTUXE, 


185 


bIu'  is.  l^p  luTi'  the  streets  ;ire  (jiiiet  ;  loiiuf  rows  of 
li.mdsorne  brown  houses,  jis  mm-h  ulike  as  pins  in  ii 
]>ii|>er,  are  on  either  hand,  l^ede.strians  are  lew  and 
walk  fast  ;  thehhjeand  brass  sohliers  pass  iier  now 
and  then,  bill,  say  not hinj]^.  Lights  «^h'ain  frotn  bas(!- 
mcnt  win<b)ws.     She  pauses  and  looks  wistfully  at  the 


1 


)i(rtures  within,     lionir  taldes,  laid  with  white  damask. 


lass  and  silver  spurklinij:  a>  at  Mrs.  Abbott's,  servants 
niovinuf  about.  Sonu'tiines  it  is  a  parlor  i'nierior,  .'v 
loriLC,  txlouini^  room  lit  with  n'reat  ijlass  globes,  a  young 
girl  at  the  i)iano,the  music  coming  to  where  the  home- 
less listener  wearily  stands  ;  mamma  with  a  book  or 
work,  pai)a  with  his  paj>er,  littJe  (thildreii  Hitting  about. 
A  great  jiain  is  at  her  jieart.  Oh  !  what  happy  p<'oplc 
there  are  in  the  world  I  Girls  like  her,  with  bright 
homes,  hajipy,  cherished,  beloved,  (jiunl.  She  is  not 
g(/t)d  ;  she  never  has  been,  she  never  will  be — it  is  not  in 
her  tiature.  She  lias  been  born  did'erent  from  others — 
nior(»  wi<!ke<l,  sullen,  fierce,  vindictive,  and  now,  last  of 
all,  ungrateful.  A  great  sob  rises  in  her  throat  ;  she 
moves  hurriedly  on.  She  is  cold,  and  tired,  an<l  home- 
sick— she,  who  has  never  iiad  a  liome,  who,  more  thai? 
ever  before,  is  lioineless  to-night.  The  hard  pavement 
burns  and  blisters  her  feet,  used  to  tread  elastic^  turf. 
It  is  growing  very  late,  and  very  cold.  Where  shall 
she  slay  until  morning?  She  cannot  walk  nnich  long- 
er ;  her  wearied  limbs  lag  even  now.  What  shall 
she  do? 

The  quiet  of  these  np-town  streets  begins  to  friglit- 
en  her.  The  Ijlinds  are  ail  closed  now  ;  the  sweet 
home-pictures  can  dazzle  her  no  more.  She  must  get 
back  to  where  there  are  light  and  life — to  that  bril- 
liant, gas  lit,  store-lit  street  she  found  herself  in  lirst. 


\\ 


ii 


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la 


180       I^   WHICH  JOANNA  SEEKS  HKU  FORTUNE. 

Hn^  she  cannot  find  it ;  slie  is  in  anotlicr  hrij^'ht 
tlioroni-lifaio  bel'oiu  long,  but  it  is  not  the  baine — it  is 
till'  H(nvc')  V. 

A  clock  soincu'licro  stiikoa  ten.  Her  bead  is  dizzy, 
a  mist  is  before  licr  eyes,  licr  feet  fail,  a  jianie  seiz(?s 
her;  she  grasps  a  railinij  to  keep  from  falling.  ISho 
can  go  no  farther,  (;ome  what  may. 

A  little  ahead  thei'e  is  a  buiiding  tliat  looks  like  a 
chui'eh.  She  movi's  toward  it,  goes  up  tlu^  steps,  and 
tiinks  down  in  a  heap.  A  pilhu'  screens  her  partly  ; 
bhe  crouches  into  the  farthest  corner,  siiuts  her  eyes, 
Rnd  tries  to  rest. 

What  shall  she  do? 

The  (piestion  beats  like  a  trip-lianinior  through  her 
dazed  brain.  She  has  no  money,  not  one  pentiy  ;  she 
does  not  know  one  living  soul  of  all  these  restless 
hundreds  who  ilit  by.  And  yet  it  is  characteristic  of 
her  stubl)()rn  resolution  that  she  never  once  repents 
having  run  away  froju  (Jeorge  Iilake,  nor  thiidis  of 
making  her  way  back  to  him.  She  knows  tlie  name 
of  the  hotel  she  has  cpiitted  ;  it  is  probable  she  might 
Mnd  it  affain.  l)Ut  the  thought  never  occurs  to  her. 
VV^h.vtever  comes,  all  that  is  past  ajid  done  with  ;  she 
will  never  take  a  single  stej)  backward  to  save  herself 
from  the  worst  fate  that  can  befall. 

What  shall  she  do?  She  feels  she  cannot  stay 
crouched  here  on  the  cold  stones  all  night.  Whither 
shall  she  go? — to  whom  appeal?  She  has  spent  many 
a  night  in  the  ojten  air  before — nights  as  cold  as  this 
— but  the  old  mill  was  her  safe  slielter,  the  familiar 
croak  ot  her  friends,  the  frogs,  her  welcome,  the 
solemn  suriye  of  the  forest  her  lullaby.  Here  there 
are  men  more  to  be  feared  than  wild  beasts,  pitiless 


IN"  WHICH  JOANXA  SKKKS  HKIl  FOIITLTNE.       187 


])('oj»lo,  who  look  at  her  witli  lianl,  sl.'iriii<jf  eyes,  llie 
"car  iMttlin<4  o'er  the  stony  street,"  noise,  liL^litj 
(lanurer.     She  has  Hpent  no  ni^jht  like  this  in  all  her  life. 

Soon  what  she  fears  most  eonies  to  pass — the 
ph'ain  of  that  fatal  reil  shawl  catches  the  quick  eye  of 
a  passer-hy.  II(f  stops,  pansi's  in  the  tiuie  he  is  wiiis- 
tlin•^^  peers  for  a  inoinent,  then  bounds  up  the  steps, 
an«l  st.nels  heside  h"i;. 

"Sa-a-v,  vou,  hullo  !" 

She  looks  up.  It  is  only  a  boy,  a  gamin  of  tho 
New  York  streets,  with  a  precocious,  uljIv,  shrewd 
little  face — a  boy  of  perhaps  thirteen.  The  inlinitc 
misery  of  hci'  eyes  strikes  this  young  gentleman  with 
a  st'uso  of  surprise. 


9" 


"Sa-a-y,"  he  rej^eats,  "dodgin'  a  cop 
The  tone  is  questioning  ;  the  words,  of  course,  are 
pcrfe(!tly  itu-omprehensible.     She  (h)es  I'iOt  reply. 
"  Sa-a-y  !     Can't  yer  speak  ?     Dodgin'  a  coj.  ?" 


The  t. 


oiu»  this  tune  is  symjiathetic,  and  is  meant  to 
reassure  her.  If  she  is  performing  the  action  in  (]ues- 
tion,  he  wishes  to  inform  her  he  has  Dcr formed  it  him- 
self,  and  that  slie  mav  count  on  Ids  commiseration. 


(( 


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t  ki 


diat 


now  wiiat  you  mean,    sue   says,  wean 


sh 


il". 


"I  am  fi  u  tiic  cotmtry  ;  I  have  lost  my  way  in  the 
streets.  I  have  no  home,  no  friends.  I  was  very  tired, 
and  I  sat  down  liere  to  rest.'* 

Her  head  drops  against  the  cold  pillar.  She  is  ut- 
terly spiritless  and  worn  out.  He  stares  at  her  for  a 
moment,  says  "  Golly  !"  softly  to  himself,  and  slowly 
resumes  his  whistle.  He  is  debating  whether  to  believe 
what  she  says  or  not. 

Sa-a-y !"    he   drawls,    after   a   little,    "  got    any 
money 


(( 


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23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)  872-4503 


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188       IN  WHICH  JOANNA  SEEKS  HER  FORTUNE. 

"  Not  a  penny." 

He  resumes  his  wliistlo  once  more.  Once  more  tlie 
keen  eyes  of  tlie  boy  of  t)ie  streets  goes  ovei-  her,  takes 
in  the  silk  dress,  tlie  gleam  of  gold,  the  crimson  shawl, 
the  weaiy,  weary  face. 

"  Sa-a-y  !   what  brought  ye  u])  to  York?" 

"  I  came  with  a — friend.  I>ut  I  did  not  want  to 
stay.  I  came  out  and  lost  niyself.  You  need  not  ask 
me  questions.  I  cannot  tell  you  more  than  that.  I 
do  not  know  what  to  do.  1  have  no  money  to  go  to 
another  hotel." 

"  Anoflier  hotel  !  Cricky  !  We've  been  in  a  hotel 
— Fifth  Avenoo  or  the  Windsor,  I  shoiddn't  wonder, 
Sa-a-y,  I'm  blessed  if  I  don't  believe  you're  tellin'  the 
truth  !" 

Sh(i  looks  up  at  him  indignantly.  The  cute,  boyisli 
face  is  a  good-humored  one,  and  his  youth  gives  her 
courage. 

"  I  wish  you  would  tidl  me  what  to  do,"  she  says, 
plteously.  "You  belong  here,  and  must  know.  I  can- 
not stay  here  all  night." 

"Should  think  not.  Well,  you  might  go  to  the 
station  for  protection." 

"The  what?" 

"The  station — -^joliss,  you  know." 

"Why  should  I  go  there?"  she  exclaims,  angrily. 
"I  have  done  nothing  wrong.  IIow  dare  you  suggest 
such  a  thing  !" 

"Blessed  if  yon  aiti't  a  green  un  !"  tl)e  boy  says, 
grinning.  "If  you  won't  go  there,  and  get  lodgin' 
free  gratis  for  nothin',  where  will  ye  go?  Sure  you 
got  no  money  ?" 


u 


Certain.     Not  one  penny 


» 


U}' 


IN  WHICH  JOAXNA  SEEKS  HKR  FOIITUNE.       189 

"  Woll,  wliat's  tli.it  a  shinin'  so — a  gold  chain  ?  If 
it  is  gold — the  real  Joroiiiiah,  luiiid — yoii  might  put  it 
up  the  spout,  and  get  money  that  way.  /'//  show  you 
your  uncle's." 

She  looks  at  him  with  such  bewildered  eyes  that  he 
grins  again. 

"  Oh  !  she's  a  green  un,  and  no  mistake.  Looky 
here,"  he  says,  adapting  his  conversation  to  his  com- 
pany, "if  I  get  you  a  lodgin',  a  clean,  comfortable, 
'spectable  lodgin',  will  you  pawn  your  jewelry  to  ])ay 
for  it  ?     'Cause  if  you  will,  I  guess  I  can  help  you." 

*'  Oh  !  most  willingly  !"  she  says,  relieved. 

The  brooch  and  chain  are  gifts  she  hates  to  part 
with,  but  anything  is  better  than  lisking  a  night  here. 
She  rises  at  once,  and  hastily  begins  to  divest  herself 
of  them. 

"  Don't  you  take  'em  off  now,"  the  boy  says,  good- 
naturedly.  "  To-morrow '11  do.  Come  along.  It's  a 
goodish  bit  of  a  walk.  We  might  take  a  car,  but 
you've  no  money,  and  I  haint  earned  salt  to  my  por- 
ridge to-day." 

"  Do  you  work  ?"  Joanna  asks,  eyeing  the  box  and 
brushes  he  carries. 

"You  bet  !  Sells  papers  in  the  mornin'  and  shines 
boots  the  rest  o'  the  time.  Haint  done  a  stroke  worth 
a  cent  to-day.  Times  is  awful  bad,"  says  this  man  of 
busi!iess,  despondently.  "  Gents  that  always  took  a 
shine  before,  goes  muddy  now,  sooner'n  part  with  a 
blamed  nickel  !" 

"Where  are  you  taking  me?"  the  girl  inquires. 
She  is  in  some  trepidation,  although  the  lad's  face  is 
not  a  bad  one,  and  she  is  dead  tired. 

"  Home,  to  our  house — ray  old  woman's,  you  know. 


uh^ 


'     ! 


Hi 


[li 


i 


f  IS,  .^1 


I      \ 


■; 


h    m" 


190       IN  WlTICir  JOATS^XA  SEEKS  HEH  FOKTUNE. 

Laundress  s/ie  is  ;  docs  up  gents'  and  ladies'  fine  linen. 
We've  got  a  spare  room  in  the  attic,  and  now  and  then 
wo  lets  it  for  lodgin'  to  girls  out  o'  })lace — lielp,  ye 
know.  ]\[ollier  knows  'em  by  dozens.  They  pays  a 
dollar  and  a  half  a  week  and  grubs  tlieirselves.  It's 
empty  now,  and  I  guess  you  can  have  it.  You  look 
the  right  sort,  you  do.  Mother  don't  take  no  other, 
mind  you.  ''J'aint  much  farther — up  four  pair,  but  the 
roof's  handy  for  dryin'." 

Joanna  is  too  spent  to  talk,  so  in  silence  they  pres- 
ently reach  the  place.  It  in  up  four  pairs,  and  very 
long  pairs  at  that ;  she  feels  as  though  she  could  never 
reach  the  top.  They  do  reach  it,  however  ;  the  boy 
opens  a  door,  there  is  a  rt<jod  of  light,  a  gush  of 
warmth,  and  they  are  "there." 

It  is  now  after  eleven,  but  late  as  is  the  hour,  the 
boy's  mother  is  still  j)ursuing  her  ayocation.  Upon  a 
stove  glowing  red-hot,  stands  an  array  of  smoothing- 
irons;  at  a  long,  narrow  table  in  the  middle  of  the 
flooi'  the  woman  starids,  polishing  the  bosom  of  a  shirt. 

The  room  is  perfectly  neat  and  clean,  two  lamps 
light  it  brightly.  The  woman  herself  is  in  a  spotless 
calico  dress  and  long  white  apron,  and  lo-  ks  both  re- 
spectable and,  like  her  son,  good-natured.  On  a  trun- 
dle-bed, in  a  corner,  two  children  lie  asleep. 

"  Bless  us,  Thad,  how  late  vou  are  !"  she  bemns. 
Then  she  sees  his  companion,  and  stops  inquiringly, 
but  in  no  surprise,  and  smiles  a  welcome.  "  (Tood 
evening,  miss.  Come  in,  and  take  an  air  of  the  fire. 
You  look  half  froze." 

Joanna  advances.  The  mother  takes  in,  as  the  son 
has  done,  the  silk  dress,  the  golden  I rinkets,  the  fine  crim' 
son  shawl,  and  her  face  grows  first  puzzled,  then  grave. 


IN  WHICH  JOAXXA  SEEKS  IIEIl  FOUTUNE.       191 


She  turns  to  her  son,  witli  something  of  a  frown,  and 
motions  him  into  an  iidjoininii;  room. 

"  Who  is  this  you  have  brought?"  she  asks.  "Jf 
don't  know  lier." 

"No  more  do  I,"  Thud  rejoins;  "but  she's  all 
right — bet  you  ten  eents  on  it  !  kShc  ain't  no  help — no 
more  she  ain't  a  street-trainper.  She's  a  country  gal, 
and  greener'n  grass.  Cut  away  from  her  friends,  I 
guess,  and  come  to  New  York  to  seek  her  fortune. 
They  all  do  it !     Don't  she  hope  she  may  iind  it  !" 

"  Where  did  you  pick  her  up  V"  the  mother  asks, 
still  dissatisfied. 

Thad  explains  at  some  length.  Thad's  mother  list- 
ens, neithei'  satisfied  nor  convinced. 

"  I'd  rather  have  my  room  emi)ty  forever,  you  know 
that,"  she  says,  with  some  asj)erity,  "than  harbor  half 
the  ruck  that's  ffoinij:.  If  I  thouij^ht  she  loof^xH  all 
right,  I'd  bundle  her  otf  again,  and  let  her  go  to  the 
station,  and  box  vcn-  ears  into  the  bai'sjrain  !  I  won't 
have  girls  picked  up  from  ri-e  streets.  I  oidy  lodge 
res{)ectable  young  women  out  of  {dace." 

Well,  s/ie\s  a  resj>ectable  young    woman  out»  o' 


a 


pi; 


ice 


?? 


^ayt 


Thad. 


8-a-v,  mother,  don't  let  us  s 


tand 


here  jawin'.  Give  a  fellow  his  supper, "can't  you,  and 
let  him  o-o  to  bed." 

"And  you  say  she's  got  no  money?"  says  the 
woman. 

"No  ;  but  she's  got  a  gold  chain,  and  the  best  o' 
clothes,  and  is  willin'  to  put 'em  up  the  spout  first  thing 
to  pay  you.  Say,  mother,  you  can't  turn  her  out,  so 
cheese  it  all,  and  give  us  some  snpper, 


5) 


He  returns  impatiently   to   the  kitchen,  where  Jo 


anna  still  sits  in  a  cane  rocker  near  the  stove. 


^  'i 


l|ilf: 


t  f 


■  I;  i 


lii 


I 


lie 


!  ) 


192     IN  WHICH  .toanna  seeks  iieu  fortune. 


r 


i  I 


)  I 


warmth,  the  vost,  tlio  silence,  liave  lulled  her  into  sleep. 
Ilei-  hea<l  lies  against  the  baek,  her  hat  is  off,  her  pale, 
tired  lace  has  the  look  of  a  spent  child. 

The  woman  bends  over  her,  and  gradually  the  per- 
turbed expression  leaves  her  face.  No — on  that  brow 
the  dreadl'ul  brand  of  the  street.^  has  never  rested. 
She  is  little  better  than  a  child  in  years  ;  the  story  she 
has  told  Thad  must  be  true.  She  is  one  of  those  fool- 
ish, romance-reading  (Mxintry  girls  who  run  away  from 
l)(^me  and  come  to  New  York  to  seek  their  fortunes. 
There  are  so  many  of  them — so  many  !  Poor  souls  ! 
the  fortune  they  mostly  find  is  ruin  and  sin  for  life, 
and  a  death  of  dai'k  despair.  Thit  girl  has  evidently 
been  well  off;  her  dress  is  of  rich  silk,  handsomely 
trimmed  and  made,  she  wears  a  gold  chain  and  watch, 
a  breastpin,  and  ring.  And  the  shawl  on  iier  lap  ;  the 
woman's  eyes  glisten  as  she  lifts  it.  All  her  life  it  has 
been  her  ambition  to  own  a  shawl  like  this,  all  wn)ol, 
deeply,  darkly,  beautifully  red.  All  her  life  it  has 
been  an  ambition  unattained. 

"I  will  keep  her  a  fortnight  for  this  shawl,"  she 
thinks,  replacing  it,  "if  she's  a  mind  to  make  the  bar- 
gam. 

Thad  is  calling  lustily  for  his  supper.  It  is  soon 
set  before  him — some  slices  of  cold  corned  beef,  some 
bread  and  butter,  and  coffee.  The  lad  falls  to  with  an 
appetite,  and  his  mother  gently  awakens  Joanna. 

"  You  must  be  hungry,"  she  says  ;  "  take  some  sup- 
per and  go  to  bed." 

But  Joanna  is  not  hungry  ;  she  dined  late,  and 
fared  well.  She  is  very,  very  tired,  though,  and  will 
go  to  bed,  with  her  hostess's  permission. 

"My  name  is  Gibbs,"  suggests  the   mation,  taking 


and 
will 


IN  WHICH  TovxxA  seeks  her  fortune.     193 

one  of  tha  lamps,  "Mrs.  (lil/os.  Will  you  tell  me 
yours?" 

For  a  moment  there  is  a  pause.  She  has  no  name. 
The  hated  one  of  Sleaford  is  not  hers  ;  she  would  not 
retain  it  if  it  were.  Jilake,  she  thinks  of  givini?  ;  but 
no,  she  has  no  ri^jht  to  poor  George's  name.  The  only 
one  that  belongs  lo  her  is  .Joanna — W'^ihl  Joanna.  Then 
it  flushes  upon  hor — she  has  only  to  reverse  that,  and 
she  is  now  ehri  'tened  for  life. 

"3[y  name  vs  Wild,"  she  says,  "Joanna  Wild." 

"x\nd  yci:  look  it,"  thinks  ]Mrs.  Gibbs,  going  on 
with  the  l.Mup  ;  "  wild  by  name,  and  wild  by  nature,  I 
dare  say.  liut  you're  not  a  street-tran)per,  and  that's 
a  beautiful  shawl,  so  it's  all  right." 

The  room  is  a  tiny  attic  chamber,  with  a  sloping 
roof,  and  lit  by  only  two  lights  of  glass.  The  bed  is 
wide  enough  to  lie  down  on,  but  certainly  to  turn  in  it 
would  be  a  serious  risk.  Still  it  looks  perfectly  clean, 
and  that  is  everything.  The  floor  is  bare  ;  one  chair 
comprises  all  the  furniture  there  is  space  for. 

"I  hope  )on  will  sleep  well," says  Mrs.  Gibbs,  kind- 
ly. "There's  a  bolt  on  the  door,  if  you've  a  mind  to, 
but  you're  quite  safe  up  here. 


» 


(( 


Thank  you,"  Joanna  says.     "Good  night. 


» 


Mrs.  Gibbs  returns  to  her  son  and  lier  work — two 
is  her  general  hour  for  retiring. 

"  Gone  to  roost,  has  she  ?"  inquires  Thad,  st'll  going 
into  his  supper  with  energy  and  appetite.  "She's  a 
rum  un,  she  is.     Wonder  if  her  moiher  knows  she's 

out  r 

And  so,  by  the  mercy  of  Heaven,  Joanna  is  saved 
from  the  streets,  and  sleeps  deeply,  drearulessly,  and 
long,  in  her  hard  little  attic  bed. 


IJ  n||[ 

1  Wk 

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194      l^  WHICH  JOANNA  FINDS  IIKR  FOIiTUNE. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


li  .-j  i 


i  ^1   1^ 


IN   WlirCII   JOANNA    FINDS    UVAl   FORTUNE. 

ITTI  tlio  risinjj  of  tlic  next  moriiin<j:'s  frostv 
sun,  Joanna's  new  lilo  may  fairly  bo  said 
to  l)(>Gjin. 

It  is  rallicr  late  when  slie  descends  to 
the  room  with  tiie  cookin<]f-stove, •which  is  kitclicn, 
parlor,  dining-room,  and  chihlren's  sk'eping-room,  in- 
clusive, 'i'lie  little  black  stove  so  superheats  it  that 
the  windows  are  open,  and  two  or  three  pots  of  hardy 
rose  geraniums  Nourish  on  the  sills.  They  make  a 
pleasant  spot  of  color  to  the  girl's  country  eyes,  Avitli 
tlieir  vivid  green  leaves  and  pink  blossoms.  k>unlight 
fimls  the  room  as  tidy  as  lampliglit.  Mrs.  Gibba 
stands  over  a  tub  in  a  corner,  washing,  a  little  boy 
and  girl  of  five  toddle  about,  each  with  a  doll  made 
out  of  a  bottle.  This  is  the  home  scene  that  greets 
Joanna. 

"Good  morning,"  Mrs.  Gibbs  says.  "How  did  you 
rest,  my  dear  ?" 

Mrs.  Gibbs'  language  and  manners  are  superior  to 
her  station,  and  Mrs.  Gibbs  greatly  prides  hei'self 
thereon.  She  is  a  person  of  literary  tastes,  and  has 
seen  better  days.  The  better  days  were  in  the  life- 
time of  the  late  Mr.  Gibbs,  when  she  had  but  little  to 
do,  and  a  great  deal  of  time  to  read  romances,  of 
"which  she  is  exceedingly  fond. 

Mr.  Gibbs  was  by  profession  a  mason's  assistant,  in 
other  words,  a  hod-carrier,  and  one  day,  overcome  by 
sun-stroke,  fell  off  a  scaffolding  and   was   instantly 


I 


1 


IX  WHICH  .TOAXXA   KINns    HEIl  FOMTIJN-E. 


195 


I 
I 


killi'<l.  That  was  four  years  aij^o,  and  since  ihen  Mrs. 
(Til)l»s  had  adopted  the  occnpatioti  of  laundress,  and 
wisely  eschewe*!  ronianee.  JJuf  what  she  has  read  has 
left  its  mark.  Her  eldest  son  niakiiiL?  hia  appeariiiKto 
about  the  time  she  compieted  *' Thaddeus  of  Warsaw," 
was  named  after  that  hero.  After  a  pause  of  seven 
years,  twins  arriving?  almost  simultaneously  with  a  copy 
of  "  Alonzo  and  Melissa,"  these  innocents  were  chris- 
tened after  that  romantic  pair.  It  is  Alonzo  ami  ^Te- 
lissa  who  are  now  ])ressinu  to  their  chuhhv  i)osoms  two 
root-beer  bottles,  and  pausinijj  in  tlieir  l>lay  to  stare 
with  round,  wonderinuf  .-yes  at  the  new-comer.  Thad- 
deus  has  departed  to  retail  the  day's  news,  and  after- 
ward "shine"  ixentlemen's  boots^. 

'•  I  sle[)t  very  well,"  Joanna  answers,  and  holds  out 
l)er  hand  with  a  smile  to  the  little  ones. 

She  loves  children,  and  her  ey(?s  briufhten  at  sight 
of  them.  iNIany  good  traits  are  in  the  girl's  character 
that  have  iiever  had  a  chance  to  come  out — this  is  one 
of  them.     She  has  never  known  a  child  in  her  life. 

Alonzo  and  jNIelissa  look  at  her,  and,  with  the  in- 
tuitive instinct  of  children  and  dogs,  see  in  her  a  friend 
at  once. 

"  Perhaps  you  won't  mind  getting  your  own  break- 
fast ?"  says  Mrs.  Gibbs.  "  I'm  busy,  as  you  see. 
There's  the  teapot  on  the  stove,  and  the  dishes,  and 
bread  and  butter  are  in  the  pantry.  Set  the  table 
yourself  and  take  your  breakfast." 

"  I  feel  as  if  I  were  a  burden  to  yon,"  Joanna  says, 
but  I  hope  it  will  not  be  for  long.     I  have  no  money 


(( 


now,  but  the  very  first  I  earn  I  will  give  you." 

She  says  it  with  an   lionesty  and   earnestness  her 
hostess  sees  is  very  real.     Mrs,  Gibbs  finds  she  "  likes 


m  ; 


1i 


mm  f\ 


n 


190       IN  WHICH  JOANNA  FINDS  IIKIl  FORTUNE. 


P 


ii 


tho  loDks  of  lior"  by  (l;iyIii,Mjf,  tlioiiiili  slio  is  an  un* 
coinni<iii-li)()kiiiLj  youiiuj  woman  sonicliow,  loo. 

"  What  do  vou  itilcnd  t(;  do  V"  she  asks,  nibbliig 
away  at  the  shirt  slu!  is  at  work  upon. 

She  smiles  a  liltle  to  hcrscll"  as  she  asks — slio  knows 
BO  well  what  the  answer  will  be.  All  these  <^irls  who 
run  away  from  their  frieiids  seem  to  have  but  one  idea 
— to  go  on  (he  stage  an(|  dazzle  the  New  York  public 
as  full-flt'dged  Lady  Miicbeths.  'I'hey  may  leave  iiome 
plain  and  unattractive  enough,  but'somelhing  in  tho 
air  of  the  great  (nty  is  to  make  them  beautiful  an<l 
talented,  and  send  them  home  to  their  relatives  in  a 
few  years,  dazzling  visions  of  loveliness,  fame,  an<l 
wealth.  It  ha])pens  like  that  to  their  favorite  beroines, 
why  not  to  tbem  ?     iiut  Joanna's  reply  is  not  to  order. 

"  I  intend  to  work,"  she  says  steadily  ;  "  tliere  is  no 
kind  of  housework,  T  think,  I  cannot  do.  I  am  very 
strong,  and  very  willing.  I  can  wash,  iron,  cook — I 
have  done  it  all  my  life." 

Mrs.  Gibbs  is  so  astonished  that  she  pauses  in  lier 
washing,  and,  with  suds  up  to  her  elbows,  gazes  admir- 
ingly at  the  speaker. 

"  Well  !  upon  my  word  !"  she  says.  Then  she 
laughs,  and  vigorously  resumes  her  rubbing.  "I  didn't 
expect  that,  you  see,"  she  explains.  "  Work  is  the 
last  thing  girls  that  run — come  up  from  the  country — • 
seem  to  think  of.  I  have  known  lots  of  'em,  and  I 
never  knew  one  yet  who  wanted  to  work.  They  can 
get  enough  of  that  at  home.  They  want  to  go  on  the 
stage,  and  be  ballet  girls,  actresses,  wliat  not.  They  seem 
to  think  the  New  York  flagstones  are  made  of  gold. 
Poor  things,  they  soon  find  out  their  mistake  !  Some- 
times they  go  back  ashamed  and  half  starved,  some- 


wmr 


IN  wrrrcir  .tc  *nxa  fixds  heii  foiituxe. 


107 


she 

(In't 

tlie 


a  I 

can 
the 
eom 
old. 
)me« 
ome« 


times  tlicy  slay  on,  and — iili  I  dear  mo,  the  rlty  Is  a 
l>iid  placo  for  a  fricndloss  country  ,i;irl.  And  //o'f  want 
lo  work.  Oh,  wi-Il  !  you  will  ^ct  that  fast  cnoM^li  ; 
always  nlcnlv  to  do  for  wiHirn' hands  ami  hearts.  And 
housework's  easier  got  than  most  thinj^s,  than  places 
in  stores,  or  sewini^,  or  i^entecd  ihiiiLjs  like  that.  IJut 
I  woinh'r,  seeini^  it's  a  hard  life,  that  you  came  up  lor 
that.  l>y  your  dress  you  should  have  been  jtretty  well 
ofF  (h)wn  tliere — wiierever  it  is.  Vou  won't  make 
enough  at  liousowork,  let  mo  tell  you,  to  buy  .silk 
dresses  like  that,  and  icold  watches  and  (Oiains." 

Joanna  glances  down  at  her  silk  robe  and  smiles, 
wondering  what  good  IMrs.  Gibbs  would  say  if  she 
knew  the  truth. 

"You  must  have  had  a  good  liomo,"  continues  t])e 
widow,  "and  kind  friends.  Take  my  advice,  Miss 
Wild,  and  go  back  before  it  is  too  late.  The  city  is 
not  what  you  think  it.  Go  back  to  your  good  home, 
no  matter  how  hard  you  may  have  to  work,  and  thank 
the  Lord  you've  got  it." 

"It  was  not  a  good  home,"  Joanna  says,  steadily. 
"I  liad  not  kind  friends.  It  was  a  bad,  cruel  place  to 
live  in.  Yes,  bad,  and  they  were  bad  people.  I  had 
no  friends  \n  that  house." 

"And  yet  your  dress,  your  jewelry " 

"Oh!  the  dress  !  that  is  nothing!"  the  girl  says, 
with  a  touch  of  her  old  impatience;  "the  watch  and 
chain  were  New  Year  gifts  from  a  lady  who  was  kind 
to  me.  But  I  cannot  go  back — I  never  will  go  back. 
I  am  willing  and  able  to  work  ;  vou  mav  recommen<l 
mo  without  fear.  The  jewelry  I  will  sell  and  pay  you 
' — the  watch  I  should  like  to  keep  for  the  lady's  sake," 


icr  voice 


fait 


crs 


itlh 


u 


You  liave  been  kind  to  me 


m 


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f>m  ii 


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mm. 


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, 

f 

i  ! 


f         1 


k         i 


198       IN  WHICH  JOANNA  FINDS  HKIl  FORTUNE. 

— you  liavo  savi'd  mo  from  tlio  streets.     Asj  sure  as  I 
live,  you  will  fiml  me  gnileful." 

There  is  Hilence.  Mrs.  (iibbs  rubs  aw.iy,  Joanna 
clears  ofT  the  breakfast  service.  Suddenly  the  widow 
breaks  out  : 

"Look  here,  ^[iss  Wild,  I  don't  want  to  take  no 
mean  advantai^e  of  you,  but,  of  course,  I  can't  alTord 
to  keep  you  for  nothini;.  15ut  I  will  keep  you,  board, 
and  everything,  for — say  a  fortnij^lit — that  will  give 
you  time  to  look  aboiiL  you  and  get  used  to  town,  for 
that  red  shawl  of  yours.  There  !  I  like  that  shawl. 
If  you  think  it  a  fair  exchange,  say  so." 

kShe  lo<;ks  eagerly  as  she  makes  the  proposal,  evi- 
dently fearing  a  refusal.  That  any  one  can  possess 
such  a  beautiful  garment,  and  be  willing  to  part  with 
it,  is  what  she  does  not  expect.  But  Joanna's  face 
lights  with  relief  at  the  offer. 

"  The  red  shawl  !"  she  exclaims,  laugliing,  and  again 
wondering  what  honest  Mrs.  Gibbs  would  say  if  she 
knew  how  she  had  come  by  it,  "why,  certainly.  I  am 
glad  to  be  rid  of  it — Zcould  not  wear  a  red  shawl  if  I 
wanted  to.  I  am  sure  I  do  not  know  why  I  bought  it. 
Take  it  and  welcome." 

The  widow  draws  a  long  breath — the  desire  of  many 
years  is  attained  at  last. 

"  Well,  I'm  sure,  I'm  much  obliged.  It's  a  beauti- 
ful shawl,  all  wool,  soft  as  silk,  and  such  a  lovely  color. 
I  will  tell  you  wdiat  I'll  do,"  cries  Mrs.  Gibbs,  in  a 
burst  of  gratitude,  "you  shall  stay  for  three  weeks,  if 
you've  a  mind  to,  and  Thad  shall  take  you  about  Sun- 
days, and  I'll  find  you  a  nice  easy  place  in  a  small  fam- 
ily, as  waitress,  or  nurse-girl,  or  something  of  the  sort 
Would  you  mind  wearing  a  cap,  and  white  apron  ?'* 


IN  WHICH  .>OANXA  F\Sm  UK\l  FORTUJTE.       100 

It  npp«»nrs,  upon  oxplanatioti,  tli.it  Joanna  wnuhl 
mind  tlioso  hadi^t'S  of  Kt'i'viliidc,  allhouijfli  gt!:  rwlso 
pivfciriiiL,'  the  situation  of  children's  nnrsi'. 

"  Well,  then,  it  must  he  j^encral  housework,  I  suj)- 
j)ose,"  says  Mrs.  Gil)l)s,  "but  never  mind.  Til  find  you 
a  nice,  easy  plaee,  with  oidy  two  or  three  in  the  fam- 
ily, and  every  Sunday  out.  You  must  come  to  see  mo 
often,  and  look  upon  this  as  your  home  whenever  out 
of  plaee." 

Amicable  relations  of  the  warmest  kind  l>einixthus 
established  through  the  medium  of  Ijiz's  brilliant  re<l 
bhawl,  no  more  is  said.  JJut  fate  has  decreed  that  Jo- 
anna is  not  to  get  that  "  nice,  easy  place,"  or  beu^in  life 
Jis  a  maid  of  all  work.  Her  voice  and  her  five  years' 
Bteady  traininii:  stand  her  in  stead  at  last,  in  the  very 
M'ay  she  least  expects. 

It  begins  by  the  cordial  friendship  tliat  springs  up 
in  the  bosoms  of  Alonzo  and  Melissa  for  3Iiss  Wild. 
They  take  to  her,  and  she  to  them,  in  a  way  quite  won- 
derful, considering  the  brevity  of  the  acquaintance. 

On  the  evening  of  the  third  day,  as  Joanna  sits  in 
the  rocking-chair  before  the  glowing  stove,  with  Me- 
lissa and  her  "  bottle  baby  "  in  her  lap,  it  chances  that, 
lialf  unconsciously,  she  begins  to  sing.  It  is  that  little 
Scotch  song  Frank  Livingston  used  to  like,  "My  ain 
iwAe  side." 

Mrs.  Gibbs  is  ironing.  Outside  a  wild  night  is  clos- 
ing in,  with  high  wind,  and  lashing  sleet,  and  rain. 
As  Joanna  sings  and  rocks,  she  is  thinking  how  this 
fierce  tempest  is  surging  through  the  pine  woods,  rat- 
tling the  timbers  of  the  old  mill,  troubling  the  frozen 
depths  of  Black's  Dam.  She  shudders  to  think  that 
but  for  George  Blake — oh,  poor  George  Blake  ! — she 


:.  I 


'\ 


i: 


I 


i 


i  ii 


11 


I 


200       IN  WHICH  JOANNA  FINDS  HER  FO RHINE. 

might  be  lying  at  this  liour  dead  in  its  foul  waters. 
Wiiat  arc  thoy  doing  at  Sloaford's  ? — what  at  Abbott 
Wood  ?  What  dues  Mrs.  Abbott,  GeolTroy,  Leo,  think 
of  lier  ?  Is  George  Bhake  seeking  lier  throuu;h  tlie  vast 
city  in  vain  ?  Is  Frank  Livingston  going  to  the  opera, 
or  the  theater,  or  a  ball  Boruewhei'e  up  in  these  sta^lely 
brown-stone  streets  ? 

As  she  thinks  she  sings,  and  as  she  sings,  Mrs.  Gibbs 
gradually  ceases  woi'k,  and  listens  with  open  mouth. 
The  Scotch  song  is  linished  ;  she  begins  another,  a 
German  ci-adle  song  this  time,  a  crooning,  sweet  sort 
of  lullaby,  tliiit  Leo  used  to  like  at  this  hour.  The 
iron  in  the  liste?ier's  hand  has  gi'own  cold  ;  she  stands 
lost  in  wonder  at  this  singing  bird  she  has  caged. 

"Lord  bless  me.  Miss  Wild  !"  she  says,  when  Jo- 
anna ceases,  "  wherever  did  you  learn  to  sing  like 
that?" 

Tiie  girl  looked  up  at  her  vacantly,  not  yet  leturned 
from  dream-land. 

"Eh?"  she  says  ;  "singing?  Was  I  singing?  I 
did  not  know  it.     I  was  thinking  of  something  else." 

Mrs.  Gibbs  stares. 

"  Upon  my  word,  Miss  Wild,"  she  exclaims,  "  you 
are  a  strange  young  woman  !  Why,  you  sing  like  a 
— like  a — like  Mademoiselle  Azelma  herself  !" 

"Who  is  INIademoiselle  Azelma?" 

"She's  a  singing  lady — a  German.  Who  learned 
you  to  sing  in  German  ?  1  declare,  I  never  was  more 
surprised  in  my  life  !" 

"  Indeed  !  IJecause  I  can  sing  ?  Oh,  yes,  I  can 
sing — I  can  play,  too,  although  my  hands  do  not  look 
like  it,"  Joanna  says,  smiling. 

"  You're  the   most  wonderful  young  girl   I    evei 


IN  WHICH  JOANNA  FINDS  IIEIl  FOllTLTNE.       201 


I 


vei 


came  across  !"  ropcats  woTidcM'lnjj^  ]\Ii-s.  Gil»bs.  "  Wlio 
would  ever  think  yon  couM  siipjj  like  that?  Do  siii^jj 
another — out  loud  this  time.  Never  mind  Lissy — she's 
asleep." 

Joanna  obeys.  She  uplifts  tlmt  fine,  ])ure,  strong 
contralto  of  hers,  and  sings  "  Roberto  o  tu  che  adoro," 
and  the  Italian,  and  the  compass  of  voice,  and  the 
thrilling  sweetness  of  the  song  itself,  completely  con- 
founds good  Mrs.  Gibbs.  Siie  gives  up  utterly,  and 
sits  down. 

"  Well,  I  never  !"  she  says,  and  stares  blankly  at 
the  girl.  "I  never  in  all  my  life  I" — another  stare, 
■'I  do  declare  I  never  did  !"  says  Mrs.  Gibbs,  and  gels 
up  again  with  a  gasp. 

Joanna  laughs  outright.  She  has  a  delightful 
laugh — merry,  girlish,  sweet — but  its  sound  is  so  un- 
usual it  startles  herself. 

"Is  it  so  very  wonderful,  then?"  she  says,  still 
lano-hinii:.     "  I  know  I  sing  well  ;  I  was  well  tauixht." 

"Tell  me  this,"  says  i\[rs.  Gibbs,  almost  angrily — ■ 
"  why  did  you  say  you  had  no  friends,  when  you  have 
the  education,  and  manners,  and  dress  of  a  lady  ? 
Why,  your  musical  education  must  have  cost  a  sight." 

"  I  suppose  it  did.  I  told  you  I  had  one  friend — 
the  lady  who  gave  me  my  watch.  When  I  was  a  lit- 
tle, half-starved,  ill-used  child,  she  heard  me  sing,  and 
thought  my  voice  worth  cultivating.  She  has  educated 
me  ;  I  owe  her  everything.  She  would  have  taken  me 
for  good,  long  ago,  only  those  I  lived  with  would  not 
give  me  up." 

"  Why  did  you  not  go  to  her  when  you  ran 
away  ?" 

"  I  would  not  have  been  allowed  to  remain     Thero 
9* 


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202       IN    WHICH  JOANNA  FINDS  HER  FORTUNE. 

were  other  reasons  besides.  But  you  need  not  be 
afraid  ;  I  will  work  just  as  well  when  you  get  rae  that 
place,  as  though  I  could  not  sing  a  note." 

"  You  work  !"  retorts  oMrs.  Gihbs,  almost  contemp- 
tuously ;  "  with  such  a  voice  as  that  !  I  will  get  you 
no  place.  I  will  speak  to  Mr.  Ericson  about  you 
instead." 

Joanna  looks  inquiringly. 

"  Mr.  Eric-X'U  is  a  German,"  says  the  widow,  re- 
8un»ing  her  work — "a  teacher  of  music  and  singijig. 
I  do  up  his  linen.  His  brother  is  proprietor  of  a  the- 
ater— a  little  German  theater — and  Mile.  Azehna  sings 
there,  and  makes  ever  so  much  monev.  Jiut  Mile. 
Azelma  is  a  very  difficult  lady  to  get  idong  with  ; 
whenever  she  is  out  of  temper,  it  flies  to  her  tliroat, 
and  she  cannot  sing  that  night.  Professor  Eric»on 
swears  at  her  awful  in  Dutch,  and  says  if  he  could  get 
any  one  to  take  her  place,  lie  would  send  her  about 
her  business.  Now,  I  have  heard  her,  and  I  do  think 
you  sing  better  than  she  does  ;  and  tiicn  you  have 
been  trained  to  singing,  which  is  everything.  To-mor- 
row I  am  going  to  take  his  shirts  home,  and  you  shall 
go  with  me,  and  sing  for  him.  If  he  takes  a  fancy  to 
you  your  fortune  is  made." 

"  13 ut  I  don't  want  to  go  on  the  stage,"  Joanna 
says,  blankly  ;  "I  could  not.  I  never  w^as  in  a  theater 
in  my  life.     I  never  thought  of  such  a  thing." 

"Then  you  had  better  begin,  for  it's  the  very  thing 
to  suit  you,  with  that  voice.  You  will  earn  ten  times 
as  much  as  in  any  other  way,  and  if  you  knov  how  to 
take  care  of  yourself,  it's  as  safe  as  any  other  life. 
It's  a  most  resj)ectable  little  theater,  only  not  first-class, 
of  course.     Fashionable  people  don't  go  there.     ALr, 


IN  WHICH  JOANNA  FINDS  HER  FORTUNE.       203 


!^ 


Ericson  has  cjiven  me  and  Tliad  tickets  often.  Make 
up  your  niiiid,  my  dear,  tliat  tliat  voice  wasn't  given 
you  lor  nothing,  or  all  that  teaching  either,  and  earn 
your  living  in  the  easiest  way.  Come  with  me  to-mor- 
row, and  let  Mr.  Ericson  iiear  you." 

Joanna  is  startled  ;  the  idea  is  new,  but  she  is  open 
to  conviction.  She  goes  with  Mrs.  Gihbs  on  the  mor- 
row, and  is  presented  in  due  form  to  Ilerr  Ericson,  a 
little,  yellow  man,  with  a  bushy  white  mustache  and 
a  frowning  brow. 

"You  can  sing?"  he  says,  scowling  under  his  eye- 
brows a.t  the  girl.  "  I3ah  !  Mrs.  Gibbs  does  not  know 
singing  when  she  hears  it.  You  can  play?  There  is 
a  })iano — while  I  pay  for  my  shirts,  sit  down  and  sing 


a  song. 


55 


His  bru?"<ue  manner  sets  Joanna  more  completely 
at  her  ease  than  any  civility.  He  looks  at  her  con- 
temptuously. She  will  show  this  cross  little  man  she 
can  sing.  She  seats  herself,  plays  a  prelude,  and  big- 
gins one  of  her  best  German  songs.  The  little  pro- 
fessor counts  out  his  laundress's  money,  stops  suddenly, 
fixes  his  spectacles  more  securely  on  his  nose,  rises  has- 
tily, crosses  to  the  piano,  and  scowls  a  scowl  of  inten.so 
surprise. 

"  Good  !"  he  says  ;  a  trifle  more  snappishly  though, 
if  possible,  than  before.  "You  can  sing.  And  you 
have  been  trained.  That  is  a  very  good  song,  and  ren- 
dered with  expression.    You  want  to  go  on  the  stage  ?" 

Joanna  shrugs  her  shoulders. 

"  I  really  do  not  care  about  it,  Ilerr  Professor.  I 
never  thought  of  such  a  thing  until  Mrs.  Gibbs  sug- 
gested it." 


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204       IN  WlllCn  JOANNA  FINDS  IIER  FORTUNE. 

"  TTiimpli  !   If  I  got  3'ou  a  place  will  you  accept  it  ?" 

«  A  place  ?" 

"A  situation — an  rncc"»Gfement  to  since  at  mv  brolh- 
er's  theater.  The  salary  will  not  be  much  at  first. 
You  can  s^o  on  in  the  (Oiorus,  and  so  get  user!  to  tho 
stage.  And  I  have  a  project  in  my  mind.  Yes,  a  pro- 
ject  " 

He  breaks  off,  and  walks  rapidly  up  and  down,  his 
hands  in  his  pantaloons'  pockets,  frowning  horribly, 
and  biting  his  mustache. 

"Look  you  here!"  he  says,  "  you  can  sing.  You 
spit  me.  You  are  the  sort  of  a  young  woma;i  I  have 
been  looking  for  for  some  time.  Plenty  can  sing. 
Bah  !  that  is  nothing  !  A  voice  without  cultivation — 
that  is  the  devil  !  You  have  been  trained.  In  a  week 
you  might  go  before  an  audience  and  makQ  your  debut. 
You  shall  go  before  an  audience.  You  shall  make 
your  debut  /     Tell  me  this — who  are  your  friends  ?" 

"I  have  none,  Mr.  Ericson." 

"  Good  !  Better  and  better  !  Friends  are  the  very 
deuce!  Now  listen  to  me.  Hundreds  would  jump  at 
the  offer  I  am  going  to  make,  with  voices  as  good  as 
yours,  only  not  the  cultivation — mind  j'ou  !  You  have 
a  voice — yes  !  You  will  make  a  success — true  !  You 
will  never  be  a  great  cantatrice  !"  shaking  one  nervous 
finger  at  her  ;  "  do  not  think  it.  Not  a  Nilsson,  not  a 
Patti — nothing  like  it — but  a  fair  singer,  a  popular  vo- 
calist, that  you  will  be.  And  you  shall  make  your 
debut  at  my  brother's  theater,  and  you  shall  be  paid, 
and  you  shall  be  my  jjroicgee.  jMlle.  Azelma  shall  go 
to  the  devil  !  But  you  will  make  no  engagement  with 
my  brother,  for  I  have  another  project  in  my  head, 
tapping  that  member.     "  Later  you  shall  ht-ar.     1 


5> 


IN  WIIICJ.I  JOANNA  FINDS  HER  FORTUNE.       205 

day  I  will  speak  to  my  brotlier  ;  to-morrow  night  you 
shall  go  on  in  the  chorus.     Good  day  !" 

lie  turns  them  out  of  the  room,  then  flies  after,  and 
calls  back  IMrs.  Gibbs.  For  Joanna,  she  is  fairly  be- 
wildered with  the  rapidity  of  all  this. 

"You  take  care  of  that  girl,  Madame  Gibbs  !"  the 
professor  says,  frowning  fiercely.  "Mark  you!  sho 
Las  a  fortune  in  her  throat." 

It  all  comes  to  ))ass  as  the  professor  wills.  He  is  a 
sort  of  human  whirlwind,  with  no  idea  of  letting  anv 
other  living  cr((ature  have  a  will  of  his  own  where  he 
is.  lie  does  speak  to  "  my  brother" — a  large,  mild  man 
of  true  German  stolidity,  lie  provides  a  costume  for 
the  dehutcuite,  and  sends  her  on  in  the  chorus.  It  is  a 
small  theater  ;  the  performance  is  German,  the  actors, 
the  singers,  the  audience  are  all  German.  Joanna 
goes  on  and  goes  oil  with  a  phlegm  that  even  Pro- 
fessor Ericson  admires.  She  is  nothing  daunted  by  all 
the  faces,  and  is  used  to  drawing-room  performances. 

After  a  night  or  two,  she  begins  to  enter  into  the 
spirit  of  the  thing,  and  to  like  it.  The  professor  loses 
no  time  ;  he  begins  at  once  to  drill  her  in  Mile.  Azel- 
ma's  principal  roles.  She  hears  that  popular  prima- 
donna,  and  feels  convinced  she  can  equal  her,  at  least. 
A  spirit  of  ambition,  of  rivalry,  arises  within  her.  The 
first  time  Azelma's  temper  flies  to  her  throat,  she,  Miss 
Wild,  is  to  take  her  place. 

That  time  is  not  long  coming.  Mile.  Azelma's 
latest  costume  fits  badly,  her  larynx  is  at  once  affected  ; 
that  evening  she  is  too  seriously  indisposed  to  sing — 
something  else  must  be  substituted.  Nothing  else 
shall,  swears  the  llerr  Professor.  And  in  a  beautiful 
costume,  Miss    Wild,  to  the   surprise  of   everybody, 


Hv 


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200       IN  WHICH  JOANNA  FINDS  ITER  FORTUNE. 


I    I 


takes  ]\[llo.  Azt'lma's  part,  and  sings  better  than  tliat 
lady  ever  did  in  all  lier  life.  The  audience  applaud 
— they,  like  the  management,  are  tired  of  the  leading 
lady's  caprices.  Ilerr  Ericson  glows  with  delight. 
He  fairly  clasps  Joanna  in  his  arms  when  she  comes 
off. 

"You  sing  like  an  angel,"  he  cries,  in  a  7'apture. 
*'  Mile.  Azelnia  may  go  hang  herself  !  Ah  !  I  foresee 
my  project  will  be  a  grand  success." 

Next  day  the  project  is  unfolded.     It  is  to  travel 
through  the  country,  with  Joanna,  and  anoilwv protege 
of  his,  a  young  Italian  tenor  he  has  picked  up  and  in- 
structed, and  give  concerts.     Madame  Ericson,  who  is 
ilso  a  vocalist  of  no  mean   ability,  goes   with  them, 
riiey  will  be  a  company  of  four  ;  and  they  will  storm 
;he  provinces  !    They  will  make  their  fortunes  !    They 
vill   see  life  !     They  will  cover  themselves  with  ini- 
nortality  ! 

It  suits  Joanna  exactly.  Already  she  is  anxious 
I)  leave  New  York.  Twice  she  has  passed  Frank  Liv- 
ingston on  the  street,  and  once  on  horseback  in  the 
park.  On  neither  occasion  has  he  noticed  her,  but  the 
rencontre  has  set  her  heart  beating  wildly.  Riding  in 
the  park,  with  a  young  lady  by  his  side,  he  has  looked 
like  a  demi-god  in  Joanna's  dazed  eyes,  somelhing  so 
far  above  and  beyond  her,  that  she  wonders  to  remember 
she  has  ever  spoken  to  him  at  all.  And  her  last  words 
to  him  were  a  bitter  rebuke.  She  is  not  safe  in  New 
York  ;  he,  or  Guorge  Bhike,  may  meet  and  recognize 
her,  any  day.  To  all  who  have  kno  vn  her,  she  wishes 
to  be  forever  lost. 

Early  in  May  the  little  company  are  to  start.    All  this 
time  Joanna  has  gone  on  living  with  Mrs.  Gibbs,  whom 


THE  TRAGEDY    AT   SLEAFORD  S. 


207 


she  lias  paid  and  repaid,  over  and  over  again.  Tlio 
rest  of  her  earnings  arc  swallowed  Uj)  by  a  wardrobe, 
which  tlie  Ilerr  Professor  insists  shall  be  handsome 
and  abundant.  She  is  to  sintjr  songs  in  character,  and 
many  costumes  are  needed  to  fit  them  all. 

The  winter  days  fly  by.  May  comes,  warm  and 
sunny.  From  Brightbrook  she  has  heard  nothing. 
She  does  not  want  to  hear.  That  life  is  dead  and 
done  with,  it  holds  no  memory  that  is  not  of  pain. 
Sleaford's  Joanna  lives  no  more.  Miss  Wild  does, 
and  her  new  life  seems  to  open  pleasantly  and  promis- 
ingly enough.  About  the  middle  of  JMay  they  leave 
Kew  York,  and  Joanna  is  fairly  iaunclied  iu  her  new 
life. 


-*■•*- 


CPIAPTER  VII. 

THE  TRAGEDY    AT   SLEAFORD'S. 

ND  at  Brightbrook  ? 

It  chances  that  Mr.  Giles  Sleaford  is  ab- 
sent from  the  bosom  of  his  fainily  while  all 
these  disastrous  affairs  are  going  on.  Mr. 
Sleaford  is  a  patron  of  the  ring,  and  a  pugilistic  en- 
counter for  the  championship  of  a  town  some  forty 
r?ik-3  away  takes  place  about  this  time. 

In  company  M'ith  some  other  congenial  souls,  Giles 
is  on  the  spot,  betting  heavily,  drinking  deeply,  swear- 
ing roundly,  and  using  his  own  fists — mawlers,  Mr. 
Sleaford  terms  them — freely  when  occasion  offers.  And 
so  it  falls  out  that  for  nine  days  after  the  flight  of  Jo- 
anna, that  flight  remains  a  secret  to  Black  Giles. 

Ou  the  evening  of  that  ninth   day  Mr.  Sleaford  re 


m 


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fi!!: 


lit. ''iH'i 


208 


THE   TRAOKDY    AT   SLEAFORD  S. 


turns  to  liis  1)0!tio  and  f.unily,  blacker  than  usual,  more 
savai^o  tlian  usual,  a  sadder,  tlioiii^li  by  no  means  a 
wiser  man,  cursing  his  luck,  his  eyes,  the  road,  the 
weather,  and  prefixing  the  British  adjective  "bloody'* 
to  each,  as  he  jogs  along. 

The  road  is  ceriaijily  rutty,  tlic  weather  especially 
gloomy  and  raw.  A  keen  January  wind  is  blowing, 
and  driving  the  sleet  in  fierce,  slanting  lines  into  Mr. 
Sleaford's  inflamed  and  whisky-bleared  eyes. 

A  great  bittenu'ss  is  upon  him  ;  the  vanity  of  all 
things  earthly,  of  P.  R.  set-to's  in  particular,  has  been 
forced  upon  him  rudely.  The  man  he  has  backed  haa 
been  beaten,  shamefully  ami  hopelessly,  and  put  in 
chancery  in  three  rounds.  Put  not  your  trust  in  prize 
fighters,  has  been  sadly  brought  home  to  Mr.  Giles 
Sleaford. 

lie  ambles  on,  on  his  jaded  horse,  stopping  at  every 
"pub,"  until,  as  the  black  and  sleety  winter  night  is 
closing  in,  he  reaches  the  Red  Farm. 

The  cheery  light  of  fire  and  lamp  streams  far  out 
over  the  iron-bound  road  ;  warmth  and  the  savory 
smell  of  supper  greet  him.  But  ]Mr.  Sleaford's  pater- 
nal greeting  is  growled  out,  stiongly  impregnated  with 
whisky  fumes,  and  is  a  gruff  command  for  Joanna  to 
come  and  pull  off  his  boots.  His  (adjective)  hands  are 
so  (adjective)  froze  that  bless  his  (adjective)  eyes,  if 
he  can  do  it  himself  ! 

There  is  a  pause  ;  Jud  and  the  two  girls  exchange 
glances.  They  are  all  afraid  of  their  father,  except 
Dan,  and  Dan  at  the  present  moment  is  not  there. 
Neither  is  Joanna,  Mr.  Sleaford  sees,  but  in  her  place 
is  a  strapping  country  lass  of  fifteen  or  so,  whom  he 
eyes  with  surly  amaze  and  disfavor. 


Ui 


THE   TRAOKDY    AT   ST-KAFOIID  S. 


209 


"Well,   IjIl'ss  my    (.'idjct'livr)  t-yos  I"    repeats   Mr. 

Sleafoi'd,  ferociously,  ''  \\liat,  llie do  yon  mean,  by 

stand'm' tluTc  like  a  j)assell  of  stuck  |>ilJJS  and  starin'? 
AVliy  the don't  yon  call  that  i^ai  ?" 

"Looky  liere,  dad,"  says  Jnd,  to  whom  the  girls 
TTiiUely  ajtpeal,  "it's  no  good  making  a  row,  hut  Joanna 
ain't  here.     She's  cut  and  run — there  !" 

"Iley?"  roars  Gi' >8  ISleaford,  staring  in  fierco 
amazement  at  his  son. 

"  True  as  gospel,  dad — cut  and  run  a  week — nlno 
days  ago — with  George  Blake." 

"  And  stole  all  our  things — my  now  silk  suit  and 
hat,  and  Liz's  shawl  !"  chimes  in  Lora. 

"  Went  off  at  break  of  day,  to  New  York,  with 
Blake,"  conlinned  Jud,  plucking  up  heart  of  grace  to 
face  his  formidable  father.  "  Cut  Dan's  head  open 
with  a  horsewhip  tirst,  and  all  for  wanting  her  to  sing 
at  Watjen's." 

Giles  Sleaford's  jaw  drops  ;  his  eyes  start  as  if 
about  to  fall  from  their  sockets.  He  is  still  "  far  wide'* 
— he  oidy  takes  in  the  one  blank  fact  that  Joanna  has 
run  away. 

"This  is  how  it  was,"  goes  on  Jud,  seeing  his  pa- 
rent's mystification. 

And  thereupon  gives  a  dispassionate  and  perfectly 
correct  version  of  the  whole  proceeding.  He  does  not 
Bpare  Dan  ;  in  his  heart  Jud  exults  in  the  pluck  Joanna 
has  shown,  anil  chuckles  inwardly  whenever  he  looks 
at  his  brother's  wound.  He,  himself,  has  never  lifted 
his  hand  to  the  girl. 

Giles  Sleaford  listens  in  dead  silence.  Even  after 
his  son  has  done,  he  sits  staring  with  open  mouth  and 
eyes,  quite  rigid  and  mute. 


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1 

■11           .1 

'  M    ■    1 
''  '     r  ! 

210 


THE   TllA(ll<:i)Y    AT   SLKAFORD'S. 


w  ii 


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I'i  1 


* 


i^ 


Tills  is  so  uiK'XpecliMl  :ui(l  thrillitiL^  tliat  tlio  Misses 
Sloaloi'd  ('X(Oian!;'('  ajtprrlK'iisivo  looks  ;  tlu'y  have  ex- 
pc'(rti'(l  an  outburst  of  rage  and  riMl-hot  oaths — ihey 
hoar  ncitlior. 

With  a  snap,  IJIack  Giles's  jaws  come  together 
again,  as  the  cho|)s  of  a  dog  close  over  a  bone.  Then 
lie  takes  down  his  short  blaek  pipe,  and  slowly  begins 
to  load  it  to  the  muzzle — all  without  a  word  of  corn- 
inent.  lie  lights  up,  fills  the  kitchen  with  volumes  of 
smoke,  always  in  awful  and  ominous  silence. 

Presently  Dan  comes  In,  and  his  father  eyes  i»  a 
peculiar  way  the  longitudinal  strip  of  }»laster  that 
adorns  his  brow.  No  greeting,  except  a  grumbling 
sort  of  grunt  on  Dan's  j)art,  is  exchanged. 

]\lr.  Sleaford  sits  buried  in  profound  reflection. 
Supper  is  announced,  strong  and  savory,  as  it  is  in  the 
nature  of  the  Sleaford  repasts  to  be.  Fried  beefsteak 
smothered  in  onions  and  grease,  mashed  potatoes,  hot 
buckwheat  cakes  and  tea.  Giles  takes  out  his  pipe, 
mkI  falls  to,  with  the  sharp-set  air  of  a  man  who  has 
traveled  forty  miles,  and  who  does  not  permit  the  loss 
of  two  hundred  dollars,  and  a  household  drudge,  to 
impair  his  appetite.  But  the  Sleaford  family  are,  one 
and  all,  valiant  trenchermen  and  women. 

Seen  through  the  lighted  windows,  it  is  a  cheerful 
picture  enough  of  ri)Ugh,  homely  comfort  and  abun- 
dance— the  bountifidly  spread  table,  the  five  healthy, 
dark-skinned,  highly-colored  faces — but  the  repast  is 
eaten  in  perfect  silence,  except  a  few  whispered  re- 
marks between  the  girls. 

Outside,  the  sleet  is  still  lashing  the  glass,  and  the 
night  has  fairly  closed  in,  in  dense  darkness  and  storm. 
This  is  the  subject  of  the  whispers,  and  a  matter  of 


';•<: 


THE  TIlACrKDY    AT   SLKAFOllD  S. 


211 


801110  coiiponi  to  tlio  ]\Iiss(!s  SliNifonl,  who  iiro  dun  at  ;i 
daiicn  soiiK'  f(!\v  iiiik's  up  thu  villai^c,  and  the  iiii|il«'as- 
ant  weather  is  soinuthiiig  of  a  damper  to  their  expected 
enjoyment. 

After  supper,  still  without  a  word,  Giles  p^ots  up, 
buttons  his  rouijjh  coat,  puts  on  liis  fur  cap,  twists  somo 
yards  of  red  scarf  about  his  neck,  and  leaves  the  house. 
The  young  j)e()ple  look  at  each  other  uneasily. 

"Did  you  tell  the  old  man?"  asks  Dan. 

"Jud  did,"  says  Lora,  "and  he  never  said  a  word 
— not  one  single  blessed  word.  I  wonder  where  he's 
goinuf  '?" 

"  What  d'ye  bet  it  ain't  to  Al)bott  Wood?"  says 
Jud,  carefully  putting  his  beloved  fiddle  in  its  case. 
"That  old  red  rooster  uj)  there  knows  more  about  our 
dad  than  any  one  else.  He's  going  for  money.  lie's 
been  pretty  well  shook,  for  I  know  he  backed  tlio 
Brightbrook  Beauty  heavy,  and  he's  gone  for  another 
supply  of  the  needful.  I  thought  lie'd  raise  the  roof 
when  he  lieard  of  Joanna's  bein'  gone,  but  bless  your 
eyes,  he  took  it  like  Mary's  little  lamb  !  I  wonder 
where  Jo  is,  to-niglit?" 

"Yes,  I  wonder  !"  says  Liz,  viciously.  "I  wish  I 
had  her  here  for  about  ten  minutes,  I  would  pay  her 
out  for  my  beautiful  new  rcvl  shawl." 

If  they  could  have  seen  Joanna  at  that  moment, 
they  would  have  seen  her  "going  on"  in  the  train  of 
Mile.  Azelma,  and  facing  a  New  York  German  audi- 
ence for  the  first  tirao. 

"  If  you  gals  are  coming,  come,"  growls  Dan.  "  I 
am  going  to  get  round  the  sleigh,  so  be  ready,  as  I 
won't  wait — mind  that." 

The  young  ladies  hurry  off,  giving  sundry  directions 


i;  .1 

4  ] 


4 

'i 

hi 

I    I 


I.  Wi 


0 

!i 

;  ( 


;     I, 


'1.  : 


i , 


«*»>■ 


212 


Tiiio  ti:a(}i;i)y  at  slkai-okh  g. 


^1 


to  Joanu.'i'.s  Hucri'ssor,  llu'  stoiit-liuilx'd  rustic  in.iidcn, 
jit  j)rt'M('rit  Hiippini^  olT  tlio  l'rn;^iiK'iits  of  llic  I'l-jist. 
Tlu'V  \vill  not  l)t'  homo  until  nioiniiiLj  ;  slu;  lu-cd  not  sit 
ii|>  for  f.'itlici',  ruid  hIic  is  to  liiivo  Iji-cakfast  for  llicin, 
liot,  ;md  hot,  wiicii  thry  return  in  llio  niornini;  jihoiit 
six.  Tiicn  they  ascend  to  their  <'h;nnl)cr  to  adorn 
themselves  for  tlio  dance,  envelop  themselves  in  shavvU 
and  "  chiuds,"  and  finally  stow  themselves  away  in  tho 
hack  seat  of  the  sleigh,  ami  are  diivon  throngh  tiio 
Avhite  wiiirlin<i^  storm  to  liieir  destimifion. 

Their  fallier,  meantime,  has  reached  his,  wliich 
proves  to  he,  as  Jtnl  lias  predicted,  Ahhott  Wood. 
JIo  still  maintains  that  ominous  composure  whi(!h  has 
so  surprised  his  family,  hut  there  is  a  tierc(!  lipjht  of 
doiXGfod  determination  in  iiis  sinist<'r  eves.  It  is  some- 
tliint^  more  than  common  that  takes  him  to  Ahhott 
AVood.  SifU'.e  ho  first  became  tho  tenant  of  the  lied 
Farm,  fully  six  years  before,  ho  has  only  entered  tliat 
liouso  once — one  other  storm v  nij^ht.  lie  is  troin<jr 
there  again,  through  darkness,  and  tempest  and  wind, 
and  this  time,  too,  its  master  shall  do  his  bidding,  or 
ho,  (4iles,  will  know  tlio  reason  why.  As  before, 
Joanna  is  the  cause  that  brings  him. 

lie  roaciios  tho  house,  a  hu'jje  black  bulk  in  the 
darkness,  but  few  lights  to  be  soon,  lie  grinds  his 
teeth,  and  shakes  his  fist  at  it,  as  lie  rings  a  peal  that 
brings  two  startled  men-servants  hurriedly  to  the 
door. 

"  Is  your  master  in  ?"  he  surlil}'  demands. 

The  men  stare,  but  tho  fierce,  black-bearded  face 
commands  civility,  and  an  answer. 

Not  in.  At  Brightbrook.  Dinner  party.  Will 
be  back  to-night,  but  do  not  know  when. 


THE  TUAOKDY    AT   SLKAKOKl)  S. 


213 


\ll 


"Vou'ic  sKfi'.  ho  ain't  in  ?"  8av>«  (»ilcs,  ovciii''  lim 
men  in  a  way  that  inala-s  tliciu  step  liurrii'dly  l)a(lv. 
*' 'C'aUNC  why?  \'()m'1I  save  him  sonu-  troiihlf  il'  lie  is, 
bv  tcllin'  hin\  (Jilcs  Shal'oi*!  i.s  here,  and  wants  to  .sco 
hin»,  nn(M)nunon  particuhir." 

Hi;  i.s  not  in,  hoth  nion  assure  him,  witli  th(;  oarncst- 
ni'ss  of  pci-sonal  ahirm. 

*'  Ilah  !  Wrrry  well,  then,  NVIicn  lie  docs  ct)njo 
in  yon  tell  him  this  :  '  Giles  Slcalord's  hccn  iicro,' 
8('s  yon.  '(files  Sh-afor*!,' ses  yon,  '  come  thronj^h  all 
this  liero  bloomin'  storm  a-pnipose  to  see  yon  to-nii^ht, 
and  lie  nuL'tt  see  yon  to-nii,'ht.  Gik's  .Sh'al'ord,'  you 
ses,  'left  them  words — /tntst  see  yon,  to-ni<//it.  llo 
can't  wait,  leastways  ho  won't,  not  here,  but  he'll  wait 
for  yon  at  his  own  place,'  you  ses,  '  till  after  one 
o'clock,  and  }/ou\l  better  come  I  Them,'  yon  ses,  'was 
Giles  Sleaford's  own  expressions.'  You  tell  your  mas- 
ter them  words,  my  man,  when  he  cotnes  from  that 'ere 
dinner-j)arty." 

With  which  Giles  Sleaford  turns  away,  remounts 
his  horse,  and  ri<les  back  to  the  Ked  Farm. 

The  girl  has  not  retired  ;  she  is  nodding  stupidly 
over  the  kitchen  stove.  With  an  oath  she  is  dis- 
missed to  bed,  and  goes.  She  is  a  dull,  lumpish  crea- 
ture, and  is  frightened  to  find  herself  alone  with  the 
rats  and  black  beetles,  and  this  savage  man. 

She  has  Joanna's  little  room  under  the  rafters, 
adjoining  Giles's  own,  and  opposite  the  two  occupied 
by  the  Sleaford  boys  and  girls.  She  gets  into  bed,  and 
falls  fast  asleep  in  a  moment. 

She  does  not  know  how  long  she  sleeps.  All  the 
events  of  that  dreadful  night  are  blurred  and  con- 
founded  in   her  dull   brain.     She  awakes  suddenly  to 


iilii 


^^ 


214 


THE   TRAGEDY   AT   SLEAFORD'S. 


;lii  \ 


! 

i 


the  sound  of  the  fiorcoly-heating  storm,  the  rain, 
freozinu  as  it  falls,  lashinoj  the  windows  like  linos  of 
steel,  tlie  wind  roarini^  dismally  through  the  woods. 
It  is  very  cold,  too,  and  she  shivers  on  her  hard  bed. 

Olher  sounds  reaeh  her  from  below,  the  sounds  of 
voices  talking — loud  and  angry  voices.  Can  the  girls 
liave  come  back  ?  No,  these  are  not  girls'  voices,  they 
are  the  hars!),  strong  voices  of  disputing  men.  More 
and  more  frightened,  she  tries  to  hear — there  are  two, 
and  both  seem  to  be  talking  together.  Now  she 
recognizes  the  voice  of  her  master — the  other  is 
unknown. 

"You  don't  believe  me  !  "  She  liears  these  words 
distinctly,  shouted  rather  than  spoken  b}'  Slcaford  ; 
"  by !  then  you  shall  believe  me  !  I  have  them  up- 
stairs in  my  room  unbeknown  to  any  in  this  house. 
Come  along  !  by you  shall  see  them,  you  shall  be- 
lieve me !  I  have  them,  by  the  Eternal,  and  what's 
more,  I  have  you,  and  I'll  not  spare  you  !  No,  may  I 
be  everlastingly if  I  do  !  " 

The  imprecations  with  wliich  this  apostroplie  is  in 
terlarded   turns  the  blood  of  the  young  person   who 
listens,  as  she  ever  after  informs  her  audience,  into  a 
mask  of  ice.     The  sound  of  heavy  footsteps  stumbling 
up-stairs  follows,  two  men  enter  the  adjoining  room. 

There  is  a  fumbling  noise  as  of  a  search,  a  smothered 
mumble  of  threats  and  curses  in  the  amiable  tones  of 
]Mr.  Sleaford; — silence  on  the  part  of  the  other  man- 
then  an  exclamation  of  triumph. 

"There  !  "  cries  Sleaford,  "  look  there  !  Don't  yoii 
touch  'em,  or  I'll  let  daylight  through  you.  Just  look 
at  'era.  Here's  the  fii'st — you've  seen  that  afore. 
Here's  the  second — look  !  that's  new.     Maybe  ye  be- 


I 


10 

a 


'S 


)k 
•e. 


THE  TRAGEDY    AT   SLEAFORD'S. 


lieve  me  now  ?    Keep  off — keep  off, 


215 


—  you,  or  by 
all  that's  groat  I'll  have  your  blood  !  D'yo  think  Til 
lot  thoin  go,  after  keeping  'oiu  these  eighteen  years  ? 
lla  !  you  would,  would  you?" 

There  is  a  crash — it  is  a  falling  lamp,  an  explosion 
— a  fierce  struggle — some  dreadful  oaths.  TJien — over 
the  crash  of  the  storm,  of  lashing  sleet  and  howling 
■wind,  there  is  a  shriek,  a  dreadful,  unnatural  scream 
of  agony,  then  a  heavy  fall,  a  hollow  moan,  then 
silence. 

The  girl  in  the  bed  huddles  up  in  a  heap,  frozen 
■with  terror.  There  is  a  stamping  sound  ;  it  is  one  of 
the  men  stamping'  out  the  flame  of  the  oil,  then  a 
pause,  then  rapid  footsteps  rushing  down  the  stairs. 
A  door  opens,  shuts,  then  again  there  is  the  darkness, 
the  tumult  of  the  storm,  and  silence  in  that  awful 
inner-room. 

It  is  a  dreadful  silence,  dreadfully  broken.  A  groan 
falls  on  the  strained  ear  of  the  poor  terrified  girl. 

"  Help  !  "  a  faint  voice  calls,  "  I  am  stabbed." 

She  does  not  dare  stir,  her  t'^eth  chatter,  the  bed 
shakos  beneath  her  with  fright. 

"  Help  ! "  says  that  failing  voice  once  more,  "  for 
God's  sake  !  " 

!;?he  cannot  move,  she  seems  frozen  fast  to  the  bed 
■wherein  she  crouches.  That  terrible  cry  comes  no 
more — profound  stillness  reigns  in  that  frightful  next 
room. 

How  the  hours  of  that  night  pass  this  frightened 
creature  never  can  tell.  Her  hair  does  not  turn  white, 
which  speaks  well  for  its  stability  of  color.  She  never 
moves — she  has  buried  herself  in  a  heap  umler  the  bed- 
clothes, and  lies  there,  shivering  and  quaking. 


ill! 
illll 


i;  '.1 
iilf: 

% 


■i'  \ 


\'n 


C;.  ' 


i1 


iii 


li 


\     .!■ 


i;  li 


III 


I 
il  H 

11  m 


i 


ri 


216 


THE  TRAGEDY   AT  SLEAFORD  S. 


I  I 


•'J- 


■ii 


I    i' 


ii: 


"NVitli  tlic  first  gray  sti'cak  of  dawn  she  rises,  numb 
and  stifT,  pnts  on  her  clothes,  opens  witli  sliaking 
hand  the  door,  shuts  lier  eyes  fast,  lest  they  should 
light  on  some  hori'ible  specter,  and  bolts  down  stairs, 
out  of  the  horrid  iiouse,  far  over  the  soaked  aiid  sod- 
den fields,  as  fast  as  her  legs  can  carry  licr,  away,  away, 
anywhere,  anywhere,  out  of  that  horrible  place  ! 

It  is  a  wild,  blusterous  morning  ;  the  storm  is  not 
yet  spent ;  jagged  clouds  frown  on  the  earth,  sur- 
charged with  rain  ;  the  wind  beats  lier  fiercely  ;  the 
pallid,  blank  day  has  hardly  begun,  l^ut  at  the  near- 
est house  the  goodman  has  risen,  and  is  opening  hia 
doors  and  windows,  when  a  fiying  figure  comes  leaping 
toward  him,  flings  open  the  house  door,  and  falls  pros- 
trate on  the  threshold.  lie  picks  her  up,  puts  the  pant- 
ing creature  ijito  a  chair,  and,  in  gasps,  and  incohe- 
rently, she  tells  her  tale.  It  is  brief — murder  has  been 
done  at  Sleaford's. 

The  man  sets  off,  ronses  some  few  of  the  neighbors, 
and  starts  for  the  house.  On  their  way  they  meet  tlie 
double  sleigh  holding  the  jaded  sons  and  daughters  of 
the  house,  and  to  them  the  tale  is  unfolded.  Fivo 
minutes  brings  t'.icm  to  the  farm.  They  hurry  in,  up 
stairs,  and  pause  involuntarily  at  that  closed  door. 
Even  Dan  stands  for  a  raoment,  afraid  to  see  what 
is  on  the  other  side. 

"Oh,  go  on  !"  cries  Lora,  with  a  hysterical  sob. 

"  Open  the  door,  man,"  says  somebody  ;  "  it  may 
not  be  as  bad  as  you  think." 

He  obeys.  A  shocking  sight  meets  their  eyes.  The 
signs  of  a  struggle  are  everywhere  ;  the  broken  lamp, 
the  charred  floor,  the  overset  chairs,  and  blood — every- 
where blood  !    It  has  crept  under  the  bed,  it  has  smear- 


GEOFFREY    HEARS    A    CONFESSION. 


217 


111 


! 


ed  the  furniture  ;  it  dyes  to  the  hilt  a  long,  curved, 
murderous-looking  knife  lying  near.  Prone  <jn  the 
lloor,  on  his  face,  a  man  is  lying — a  big,  h'-oad-slioul- 
derecl,  burly  man — hi^  iiands  and  clothes  crimson  wilh 
the  terrible  tide  that  besmears  everything. 

"  It  is  father  !"  says  Lora,  with  a  terrible  cry. 

They  lift  him  up,  and  Liz  falls  backward  at  the 
ghastly  sight,  and  faints  dead  away.  His  face  is  rigid 
and  besmirched  ;  from  his  left  side  blood  still  ilows  in 
black,  coagulated  drops.  It  is  the  master  of  the  house, 
destined  never  more  to  swear,  or  drink,  or  light,  or 
horsewhip,  while  his  name  is  Giles. 


♦•» 


f'' 

1  1 

1 

fl 

I 

1 

^'\ 

t\; 

r 

i         t 

CHAPTER  VIII. 


GEOFFREY   HEARS   A   CONFESSION. 


m 


lay 


r  is  the  forenoon  of  the  day  after. 

Mrs.  Abbott  sits  alone  in  her  favorite 
sitting-roo  ■' — a  dainty  apartment  in  white 
and  gold  ;  a  carpet  like  snow,  covered  with 
purple  and  yellow-hearted  pansies  ;  chairs  like  ivory, 
upholstered  in  pale,  creamy  tints,  that  harmonize  well 
with  the  calla-lily  hue  of  the  lady's  complexion.  There 
are  flowers  in  abundance — in  pots,  in  vases,  in  crystal 
cups  ;  they  fill  the  air  with  summer  fragrance.  There 
are  but  few  pictures,  in  heavy  gilt  frames,  and  these 
are  portraits — her  own,  her  son's,  her  daughter's,  <uie 
or  two  world-wide  celebrities,  and  one  lovely,  sunlit. 
Southern  landscape.  There  are  books  everywhere,  in 
choice  bindings  ;  an  open  piano  ;  rich  draperies  of 
10 


r  i 


m 


■A  ' 


W 


•  '  I 


:ii 


M 


218 


GEOFFREY    HEARS   A    CONFESSION. 


'■  li 


II 


ii    1 


creamy  silk  and  laco  ;  and  last,  but  by  no  means  least, 
a  lire  buniiug  bvit^htly  in  the  ijjrate. 

Mrs.  Abbott  herself,  in  a  white  euslnnere  morning- 
gown,  triiiu'U'd  with  Valenciennes,  sits  back  in  the 
])ull'y  depths  of  a  great  chair,  her  book  lying  idly  on 
her  lap,  her  dark,  dreamy  eyes  on  the  lire,  her  thoughts 
anxious  and  perplexed.  Like  all  the  rest  of  the  worhl 
of  JLJrightbrook,  she  is  thinking  of  the  Sleafords. 

It  is  not  yet  elciven,  l)ut  ill  news  flies  apace  ;  it  was 
brought  to  Mrs.  Abi)Ott  by  Leo  an  ho  ir  ago.  The 
servants  never  gossip  in  their  lady';  presence,  l)ut  ihey 
do  not  nund  Mips  Leo,  and  Miss  Leo  runs  with  the 
news  to  her  mamma.  For  Joanna's  sako,  a  certain 
amount  of  interest  attaches  to  these  j)eople,  and  deeds 
of  violence  and  bloodshed  like  this  are  rare  in  this 
peaceful  con.imunity.  Some  unknown  m.in  had  visited 
Sleaford's  late  last  night,  had  had  a  quarrel  with  Slea- 
ford,  had  stabbed  Sleaford.  That  is  the  vagne  version 
that  has  reiiehed  the  mistress  of  Abbott  Wood,  and 
that  has  set  her  thoughts  wandering  painfully  to  a 
subject  she  would  fain  forget. 

She  has  been  inexpressibly  shocked  by  the  girl's 
conduct.  She  had  hoped  to  do  her  so  much  good,  to 
lift  her  above  her  surroundings — a  doubtful  sort  of 
good,  always — had  hoped   to  refine  and   subdue  her, 

had  thought  that  task    accomplished,   and    now ! 

She  has  heard  the  whole  disgraceful  story — how  for 
little  or  no  provocation  the  girl  had  set  fiercely  upon 
one  of  the  young  men,  and  laid  open  his  head  with  a 
blow  of  a  loaded  whipdiandle,  how  she  fled  to  the 
woods,  how  she  entrapped  foolish  young  George  Blako 
into  running  away  with  her,  how  she  has  added  robbery 
to  Jittempted  murder,  and  gone  to  New  York. 


^n^ 


GEOFFREY    HEARS    A    CONFESSION". 


210 


But  the  sequel  is  strangest,  wildest  of  all  ;  it 
almost  exceeds  belief.  When  Georijce  Ijlake's  freii/ied 
molher  and  maiden  aunt  rush  up  in  j)ursuit  of  the 
fugitive  pair,  v»'hat  do  they  find  ?  A  de>ertt  d  hride- 
gi'ooni  !  What  do  they  hear?  An  ineoinpreliensible 
story  !  She  has  run  away  with  him — yes  ;  but  she  has 
also  run  away  from  him  !  When  Jiiaki',  witli  his 
friend,  reached  the  hotel  some  two  hours  after  his 
quitting  it,  they  found  an  empty  room,  and  a  lost 
bride-elect,  l^oor  Geoige,  like  a  man  demented,  has 
been  hunting  the  city  ever  since,  but  in  vain.  If  the 
pavement  had  ojiened  and  swallowed  her  she  could 
not  more  completely  have  disa]>peared.  ISiie  li;is 
threatened  suicide  often — lias  she  escaped  IJlack's 
Dam  to  find  death  in  the  Xortli  River?  Mrs.  Dlake 
is  jubilant,  but  hides  her  feelings,  and  returns  with  the 
tale  to  Brightbrook. 

And  it  is  over  this  Mrs.  Abbott  is  painfully  ponder- 
ing, as  she  sits  and  looks  at  the  fire.  GeofTrey,  too,  is 
on  the  track  ;  he  sconts  the  idea  of  suicide.  lie  main- 
tains that  Joanna  must  have  been  insulted  and  goaded 
beyond  endurance.  He  has  faith  in  her  innate  good- 
ness and  jjratitude.  In  running  away  from  George 
Blake  she  has  acted  for  his  good.  He  does  not,  will 
not,  give  her  up.  "  If  she  is  above  ground  I  will  find 
her!"  he  says,  in  that  quiet,  inflexibly  determined  way 
of  his ;  but  as  yet  even  he  has  not  obtained  the 
faintest  clew. 

Down  in  tlie  servants'  hall  two  tall  footmen  stand 
aside  with  very  grave  faeces,  and  whisper  mysteriously. 
They  know  rather  more  of  the  ;ifi;air  Sleaford  than 
most  people,  but  they  have  an  excellent  place,  little  to 
do,  good  wages,  and   they  judiciously  only  whisper. 


■'  \ 

I 'I 
u 


.  •» 


'% 


i  7^  ^ 

■    I 

I     ' 


'  11 


fill 


s  . 


I  ( 


I  ; 


220 


GEOFFREY   HEARS    A    CONFESSIOT^". 


» I 


Very  late  last  niglit,  in  all  that  slorrn,  tlio  man  Sloa- 
{ovd  was  hero,  and  left  a  peremptory  order  for  master, 
when  master  retnrned.  ^Master  rode  home  about 
eleven,  was  given  that  message,  swore  roundly  at  the 
giver,  turned  his  horse,  faced  the  sleet  and  wind,  and 
rode  ofl:  again.  About  two  this  morning  he  retui-ned, 
pale  as  a  corpse,  dren(!hed,  frozen,  staggering,  stdhied 
with  blood!  Stained  with  blood — his  vest  spotted, 
one  of  his  hands  cut,  his  face  bruised,  as  if  in  a  strug- 
gle. All  this  is  seen  at  a  glance.  Then  he  went  to 
his  room,  locked  the  door,  and  has  not  boon  seen  since. 
His  man  left  his  hot  shaving-water  and  a  cuj>  of  collet 
in  the  dressing-room.  lie  did  not  appear  at  missus' 
breakfast.  It  has  a  very  ugly  look  ;  the  two  men 
have  reason  to  whisper  gravely  over  it,  and  hold  them- 
(jelves  apart. 

But  the  birds  of  the  air  carry  news  of  bloodshed. 
[t  is  being  rumored  already,  in  awe-stricken  tones, 
ihrough  the  village,  who  Giles  Sleaford's  midnight 
visitor  was. 

Mrs.  Abbott  throws  aside  her  book  at  last,  with  a 
heavy,  impatient  sigh,  and  rises,  and  goes  to  a  win- 
dow. She  draws  aside  the  draperies  and  looks  out. 
A  storm  of  wind  and  wet  is  sweeping  past  ;  the  "Jan- 
uary thaw  "  has  set  in  in  pouring  rain.  The  landscape 
looks  all  blurred  and  blotted  out,  the  sky  black  and 
low,  the  trees  twisting  and  rattling  in  the  gale.  Where 
is  that  unfortunate  Joanna,  this  wild  winter  day?  the 
lady  thinks,  with  a  shiver.  Poor  creature  !  it  seems  of 
no  use  trying  to  do  anything  with  this  sort  of  people  ; 
they  are  true  to  their  own  reckless  natures,  and  under 
that  light  outer  coating  of  varnish  are  tameless  and 
reckless  to  the  end. 


^^i 


GEOFFREY   HEARS    A    COXFESSTON. 


221 


'i! 


As  she  stands  and  fja/ies  at  the  drift incf  rjiin,  she 
sees  coming  tlirough  it  the  iigure  of  a  man.  lie  :>])- 
proaches  the  lionsc — some  one  of  the  servants,  slie 
thinks.  But  a  moment  after  tliere  is  a  tap  at  the  door, 
and  one  of  the  taU  men  enters,  looking  Ihirricd  and 
startled. 

"  Well  ?"  his  mistress  says,  in  some  sur[)rise. 

"It's — it's  a  voung  man,  ma'am,"  the  man  stam- 
mers,  "to  see  you,  if  you  please.  A  young  man  l)y 
the  name  of  Sleaford." 

"  Sleaford  !"  she  repeats  the  name,  almost  startled 
herself  ;  it  lias  been  in  her  thoughts  all  the  morning 
80  ])ersistently,  and  is  so  associated  with  tragedy 
now. 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  lie  wishes  to  see  you  most  particular, 
he  says.     It's  a  matter  of  life  or  death." 

"  To  see  me  ?"  more  and  more  surprised.  "  Arc 
you  sure  you  have  not  made  a  mistake  ?  Are  you  sure 
it  is  not  Mr.  Al)bott  ?" 

"  He  said  most  particular  ray  missus.  I  put  the 
question  to  him  wasn't  it  master,  and  he  said  no,  Mrs. 
Abbott,  and  a  matter  of  life  and  death." 

"  Show  him  in." 

She  moves  back  to  her  chair  before  the  fire,  and 
the  young  man  by  the  name  of  Sleaford  is  shown  in. 
He  casts  one  careless  glance  around  the  beautiful  white 
and  gold  boudoir,  and  stands,  hat  in  hand,  dripping, 
dark,  strou'i,  weather-beaten,  a  handsc 


•>  « 


yp^y 


of  young  fellow,  my  lady  tliinks,  not  without  a  sort  of 
admiration,  as  if  he  were  a  fine  or  a  well-painted  pie 
turestpie  brigand  in  a  Salvator  Rosa  picture. 

"  You  wished  to  see  me  ?"  her  slow,  sweet,  legato 
tones  break  the  silence.     "  Will  you  sit  down  ?" 


f    , 


I!:  ^ 


4% 


)■■. 


i    1'! 


\\ 


;     I '  f  ■ 


h^    \ 


■MM 


ii: 


1  : 


I 

la) 


222 


GEOFFREY  HEARS    A    CONFESSION. 


TIo  looks  at  the  frail,  pretty,  white  and  amber  chair, 
and  sliakcs  his  bhick  liead. 

"Xo,  huly,  I  will  stay  htit  a  minute.  I\Iy  name  is 
Jiidson  Sleal'ord.  my  father  was  stabbed  last  night. 
lie  is  dying  to-day,  and  he  has  sent  me  to  you." 

lie  addresses  her  with  perfect  ease  of  manner, 
entirely  unembarrassed  by  his  errand,  her  stately  pres- 
ence, or  the  s])lendors  around  him. 

"  Yes,"  she  says,  wondering  more  and  more,  "to 
me  ?" 

"  To  you,  lady — most  particular  to  yon.  lie  didn't 
say  so,  but  I  think  he  would  rather  Mr.  Abbott  knew 
nothing  about  it.  He  says  it  is  a  matter  in  which  you 
are  concerned,  and  he  wants  to  make  a  dying  confes- 
sion to  your  son." 

"To  my  son?" 

"  To  young  Mr.  Lamar.  Mr.  Lamar  can  tell  you 
later.     Is  he  at  home  ?" 

"  My  son  is  in  New  York,"  Mrs.  Abbott  replies, 
turning  very  pale  ;  "  he  is  in  search  of  Joanna." 

"  Thafs  unlucky,"  saj^s  Jud,  with  perfect  coolness, 
"  because  dad — I  mean  father — can't  hold  out  much 
longer,  and  he  says  it's  important.  As  well  look  for 
last  year's  partridges  as  our  Joanna — he  won't  find 
her.  Couldn't  you  send  for  him,  lady  ?  He  could  get 
a  dispatch  and  be  here  in  five  hours." 

"  Certainly,"  Mrs.  Abbott  says,  "  if  it  is  necessary. 
But " 

"Dad  wouldn't  take  all  this  trouble  if  it  wasn't. 
It's  of  importance,  you'd  better  believe,  lady,  and 
worth  hearing,  whatever  it  is.  You'd  best  send  for 
him,  and  tell  him  to  look  sharp,  if  lie  wants  to  see  the 
old  man  alive.     He's  sinking  fast.     The  doctor  says  he 


OEOFFTIKY     IIKAHS    A    COXFKSSION. 


223 


is 
jt. 


would  b(!  dead  now  from  lo-^s  of  )>lo()d  if  ho  wasn't  as 
Btroiicf  as  iivo  ordinary  men." 

*•' f  will  send  for  him  at  onco — at  once,"  llu!  lady 
says,  risinnj  ;  '"hut  I  cannot  im.iijinc " 

She  stoj)s,  looking  pale  and  i)u/zU.'d. 

*'Xo  more  can  T,"  says  Jiid.  "All  tlic  same,  <lad 
can't  die  easy  with  it  on  his  mind — so  ho  says.  I'll 
tell  him,  then,  the  young  lyenlleman  will  bo  tclcgi'aphed 
for,  and  will  come?  Put  it  strong,  please,  lady,  so 
that  there  may  be  no  mistake." 

"  He  will  come  the  instant  he  gets  the  dis))atch," 
Mrs.  Abbott  says,  and  Jud  Sleaford,  with  a  bow,  de- 
parts. 

"Come  down  at  once.     Go  straight  to  Sleaford's." 

These  are  the  words  she  writes  and  sends  to  the  vil- 
lage by  a  mounted  messenger,  which  flash  over  the 
wires  to  New  York,  and  find  Geoflfrey  rising  from  a 
midday  luncheon. 

He  knits  his  brows  })erplexedly  as  he  reads — an  odd 
message,  signed  by  his  mother.  A  moment  later  his 
face  clears.  It  concerns  Joajina — she  has  returned,  or 
there  is  news  of  her.  He  looks  at  liis  watch — it  wants 
an  hour  of  train-time.  He  will  get  to  Briirhtbrook  at 
4,30,  to  Sleaford's  at  5,  If  Joanna  is  back,  by  fair 
means  or  foul,  he  will  compel  Giles  Sleaford  to  give 
her  up.  His  interest  in  the  girl  he  has  befriended  is 
deep  and  strong — he  can  hardly  understand  its  depth 
and  strength  himself. 

CD 

The  dim  afternoon  is  fast  darkening  into  night,  as^ 
by  the  swiftest  conveyance  he  can  find  at  the  depot, 
he  drives  through  the  rainy  woods  to  the  Red  Farm. 
All  tlie  rest  of  Jiis  life  the  memory  of  that  drive  never 
leaves  him — it  is  like  no  other  that  has  gone  before,  or 


* 


m 


I 

i 


)    ! 


'M 


224 


GEOFFREY  HEARS  A  CONFESSION. 


that  comes  after.  Ilis  wliolo  life  is  clian«]fe(l  from  that 
hoiii".  The  ])i(^ture  of  the  desolate  sct'iie  will  never 
leave  him  ;  in  after  years  ho  starts  from  his  sleep  often, 
in  (listurl)e(l  dreams  liviniif  it  over  aGjain.  It  is  always 
darlv,  that  pi('ture,  with  the  nielaneholy  drip,  drij), 
of  the  rain,  ihc  forloi'n  trees,  the  desolate  iiats  and 
marslies.  It  has  heen  said  that  wc  die  many  times  he 
fore  we  are  laid  in  our  eofiin.  Looking  baek,  it  always 
seems  to  Geoffrey  Lamar  that  on  that  evening  he  died 
lirst. 

He  reaches  the  farmstead — a  strange  sti'lness  and 
gloom  rest  upon  that  noisy  household.  He  has  crossed 
its  thresiiold  but,  twice  before  ;  this  is  the  third  and 
last  time.  The  thought  of  that  somber  red  house  can 
never  return  to  him  again  without  a  thrill  of  the  pain, 
and  slianie,  and  horror  of  this  night. 

In  the  kitchen  he  finds  the  girls  and  their  youthful 
handmaid,  huddled  together,  a  shrinking  grouj). 

"^i'liey  have  feared  their  harsh  father  in  life,  they 
fear  him  more  in  his  grisly  death.  Tliey  will  not  go 
near  his  room  :  a  suj)erstitious  dread  holds  them  back  ; 
death,  and  such  dark  death  as  this,  appals  them.  Jud 
is  nurse  and  com])anion.  Dan  has  deserted  the  house, 
and  hangs  moodily  about  the  premises.  A  chill  strikes 
Geolfrey — something  more  than  news  of  Joanna  is  here. 

"  What  has  hai)pened  ?"  he  asks.  "  Why  have  I 
been  sent  for,  and  told  to  come  hero  ?" 

"  Don't  you  know?"  Lora  asks,  in  wonder.  To  her 
it  seems  as  if  all  the  world  must  know,  as  if  it  had 
liappened  months  ago,  instead  of  but  a  few  hours. 
"  Father's  been  murdered,  and  has  sent  for  you." 

"  Your  father — murdered  !" 


GEOFFREY     IIEAIIS    A    COXFESSION. 


226 


lie  stares  an  he  prouoiniiX's  the  horrible  WDid,  quite 
a^liast. 

'•JMiii'dered  !  and  sent  for  him  !'' 

"Oh!  Im  ain't  dead  yet,"  the  <^\v\  Hays,  bci^innint^ 
to  Rob  hysterically.  *' lie  can't  die,  he  nayn,  until  ho 
sees  you.  liut  he  is  dyiuL?,  and  there  is  not  a  moment 
to  lose.  Jud  said  to  call  him  as  soon  as  ever  you  came. 
Liz,  go  and  call  liim." 

"Go  yourseU"  !"  is  Liz's  whimpering  retort.  "I — 
I'm  afraid." 

"  Von  go,  Beck,"  Lora  says  to  tlie  girl  ;  and  Beck, 
posse^.^ing  plenty  of  stolid  stupidity,  which  stands  in 
g()od  stead  of  moral  courage  sometiujcs,  goes. 

Jnd  appears  directly. 

"Il/'s  lucky  you'\-e  come,"  he  says.  "  lie  won't  liold 
out  till  morning.  He's  awake  and  ready  to  see  vou. 
Come  up.  Look  out  for  the  stairs.  It's  dark,  but 
dad,  poor  old  chap,  don't  want  a  light.     Here  !  come 


in. 


V 


The  chamber  of  the  tragedy  is  but  dimly  lit  by  two 
pale  gray  squares  of  twiliglit,  but  it  is  sufficient  to 
show  the  grayer  face  of  the  dying  man.  GeolTi'ey  is  a 
physician  ;  at  a  glance  he  sees  that  death  is  there.  It 
is  a  question  of  very  few  hours.  He  is  a  ghastly  sight, 
black-bearded,  bloodless,  with  staring  eyes,  and  gasp- 
ing breath.  Some  of  the  old  fierce  light  lingers  in  these 
glazing  eyes  ;  they  kindle  at  sight  of  his  visitor. 

"  You  go,  Jud,"  he  says.  "  I'll  speak  to  this 
young  gent  alone." 

The  wonderful  strength  of  the  man  is  in  his  voice 
yet — the  old  imperious  ring  in  liis  tone. 

Jud  obeys. 
If    you    want   anything,"   he    says  to   Geoffrey 

10* 


(( 


i-r 


U' 

|i|: 

!;.(! 


1/ 


i  J'/ 

I    '  y 


Ir 


( 


i.r '  ■  f: 


t        III 


'22G 


OEOFFRKY     IIKAIiS    A    CONFKSSION. 


I    \ 


'*  kiiook  witli  your  lu'«'l  on  tlu-  floor.  I'll  i^o  down  and 
take  a  j.inokc,  and  I'll  hear  you.  Tliorc's  tli<>  stiilT  lio 
takes,  on  ilic  imIiIc.  Don't  let  liini  talk  too  inucii  ;  the 
doctor  says  'tain't  good  lor  hinj." 

"  Will  you  go  and  hold  your  jaw?"  interruplM  tho 
dvinLT  ujan  witii  a  glaio. 

Jud  slinigM  his  shouldors  and  goes,  and  GeofTrey  is 

alono  with  (Jilcs  Sleaford. 

!|«  >«  «  Hi  «  >K 

Nearly  an  hour  passes. 

Down  stairs  the  grouj)  sit  and  wait.  Thoy  wonder 
wliat  their  father  can  liave  to  say — sonu'thing  a!»out 
Joanna,  thoy  infer.  Dan  slouches  uneasily  in  and  out 
of  the  house,  tho  girls  cling  together  in  silence.  Oiit- 
nidc  the  night  and  rain  fall,  the  wind  sobs  feebly. 

"Show  a  light,  can't  ye?"  Dan  growls,  stum- 
iding  in,  and  IJeck  obeys. 

But  even  the  bright  lamp  cannot  dis])el  the  gloora, 
V.he  awe.  In  that  ujiper  chamber  there  is  silence — no 
telegraphic  boot-heel  has  summoned  aid.  Can  they  be 
'lalking  all  this  time? 

"  It  must  be  awful  dark  up  there,"  Lora  whispers. 
"  Jud  ought  to  go  with  a  light." 

But  Jud  will  not  go  until  t '«*^imoned,  "if  he 
knows  himself,"  he  asseverates.  And  he  is  not  sum- 
moned for  still  another  half  hour. 

It  is  nearly  seven  when  the  bedroom  door  opens, 
and  a  footstep  slowly  descends  the  stair.  Very  slowly, 
unsteadily,  it  seems,  and  then  the  door  opens,  and 
Geoffrey  Lamar  comes  in. 

They  start  to  their  feet,  one  and  all,  at  sight  of 
him.  What  has  happened?  Is  father — dead?  For 
death  only  should  change  any  face  as  Geoffrey  Lamar's 


GEOFFREY     IIF.AKS    A    ('( »X  FINSIOX. 


227 


lio 
ho 


110 


IS 


is  cliani^cd.  So  whllo,  so  ii.i<iu;iiri!,  tlincy*'^  !^'>  wild,  ><) 
Vfic.'iiit,  liko  tiic  eyes  of  si  sli'('|»-\valk(.'r,  llxocl  in  ix  blank, 
8i<jflill('ss  fslaro. 

"  ()li  !  what,  is  ii,  y"  ihi-y  all  cry  out.  "Is  I'ulIkt 
doa.l*;'     Is  fath.T  (k'a.i  ?" 

His  dry  lips  part,  he  makos  an  t  ITort  to  spfak, 
pliakes  his  head,  poi, its  upwards,  and  turns  and  ^j^ocs. 
Still  in  tliat  saino  i)lank  way,  as  if  da/cd  or  stunned  hy 
a  blow.  The  eonveyanct"  in  which  heeanie  is  waitinpf, 
but  he  never  thinks  of  it  ;  li{»  pIunLjes  on  ihrouixh  tho 
rain,  across  tho  sloppy  Holds  and  marsh  land,  under 
thc!  diippiiiL:;  trees — straijj^ht  on,  with  the  l)lind,  un- 
crrini^  instinct  still  of  the  sleep-walker. 

And,  stransjfest  of  all,  he  does  not  ufo  liome.  Tie 
goes  on  to  the  village,  to  the  hotel,  asks  for  a  room, 
and  looks  himself  in. 

And  then  he  falls,  rather  than  sits,  in  a  chair, 
covers  his  face  with  his  hands,  and  so  remains  motion- 
less a  long  time.  lie  is  tryin.ijf  to  think,  but  his  brain 
is  spinninijj  like  a  top — heart,  soul,  mind  are  in  oon- 
tusicjn.  His  thoughts  are  chaos — no  order  comes.  A 
^reat,  nameless  horror,  of  sin,  and  shame,  and  dark- 
ness, and  ruin  lias  fallen  upon  liim.  Past  and  future 
are  blotted  out — tho  present  Is  only  a  hopeless  whirl  of 
sudden  despair.  Ho  sits  for  a  long  time  ;  then  he 
starts  up,  and  begins  pacing  the  room,  as  a  madman 
might  ;  his  teeth  are  set,  his  face  blanched,  his  eyes 
full  of  infinite  misery,  his  liands  locked.  Walking  or 
sitting,  he  still  cannot  think.  The  blow  has  been  too 
sudden,  the  agony  too  great.  Later,  lie  will  think, 
until  thought  becomes  almost  insanity  ;  to-night  he  is 
wild,  distraught,  master  of  himself  no  more. 

He  sits  again,  starts  up  again,  and  walks  until  ex- 


'3 


!  : 


I  i 


S 


(  I 

it 


228 


A   LONG  JOURNEY. 


liaustcd.  "^rhcu  lio  flings  liimsolf  down,  liis  folded 
arms  on  tlic  table,  ]iis  fp.ee  resting  on  thetn,  with  o\i\i 
great  heart -wrnng  soh,  and  so  lies,  mute  and  j)rone. 
And  when  inorning  dully  and  heavily  breaks,  it  so 
iinds  him.      lie  has  not  slept  for  a  moment  the  wholo 


night  through. 


*•* 


CITAP'JT.R  IX. 


A     LOXG    JOURNEY. 

HAT  night  Giles  Sleaford  dies. 

A    little    group    surrounds  liis  bed — tho 
doctor,    the    clergyman,   a  magistrate,  his 
son  Jud,  and   Dan  just  within    the    door. 
And  the  last  words  of  the  dying  man  arc  these  : 

"  Nobody  done  it.  It  Avas — a  accident.  lie's 
acted — all  square  with  me — and — it  sha'n't  be  said — 
Giles    Sleaford — j)layed  it — low  down — on  him.     I'v^e 

told  the  truth — to  the  young  gent Nobody  done 

it.     I  fell — on  the  knife.     You — gents  all — remember 
that  when  I'm — toes  up." 

With  many  gasps  he  says  this — the  gray  shade  of 
death  on  his  face,  its  clammy  moisture  on  his  brow. 
There  is  a  ])rolonged  death-struggle,  the  strong  life 
"within  him  lights  hard,  but  the  rattle  sounds,  he 
stilTens  out  M'ith  a  shiver  through  all  his  limbs,  and 
lies  before  tliem — dead. 

And  John  Abbott  is  vindicated  !  It  is  the  doctor 
"vvho  brinujs  the  news  to  the  master  of  Abbott  Wood — 
the  doctor,  who  is  also  the  family  physician  of  the 
Abbotts.  He  rides  with  a  very  grave  face,  yet  curious 
to  see  how  the  man  will  take  it.     Yes,  the  servant  said^ 


A  LONG  JOURNEY. 


220 


e. 
o 

0 


dubiously,  his  master  is  in,  but  lie  doosn't  know 
whctlior  liu  will  see  iiny  one.  Dr.  Gillsou  scribbles  :\ 
line  or  two,  folds  it  up,  sends  it,  and  the  result  is  be  is 
sbown  at  once  to  Mv.  Abbott's  study.  'I'liere,  Mr. 
Abbott,  unshorn  and  haggard,  with  blood-shot  eyes 
and  disordered  dress,  sits  and  looks  at  him  with  .suUen 
suspicion  as  he  comes  in. 

"  What  is  this  message  of  yours  ?"  he  demands, 
surlily.  "  I  am  not  well  to-day.  I  did  not  wish  to 
see  any  one.     I " 

"  1  came  from  Sleaford's,"  interrupts  the  doctor, 
regarding  him  covertly.     "The  man  Giles  is  dead." 

"Dead  !"  John  Abbott  says.  "Dead  !"  The  last 
trace  of  florid  color  leaves  his  face,  and  leaves  it  per- 
fectly livid.  "Dead  I"  he  repeats,  with  a  dull,  vacant 
stare. 

"Dead  !"  reiterates  Dr.  Gillson.  "  I  havc^  just  left 
his  deatl^bed.  Mr.  Abbott,"  ho  says,  his  hand  on  tiio 
millionaire's  arm,  "it  is  known  throughout  the  place 
that  ]/0(i  were  the  man  who  visited  him  at  midnight  or 
the  night  before  last  !" 

John  Abbott  turns  his  inflamed  eyes  upon  the  physl 
clan's  face,  still  in  that  dazed,  vacant  way.  "  Well?'' 
he  says,  moistening  his  dry  lips. 

"It  is  known  you  had  a  struggle  with  him,  thai 
violent  words  passed.  It  is  known  that  for  years  ha 
has  held  some  secret  power  over  you.  Pardon  lue  for 
repeating  all  this,  but  it  is  public  talk  now  in  Bright- 
brook.  You  have  been  suspected  of — killing  (Jiles 
Sleaford." 

"  It — it  isn't  true,"  INFr.  Abbott  answers,  still  in  that 
dull,  slow  way,  so  unlike  his  usual  furious  manner  ove? 
even  trifles.     "  I  didn't  kill  him." 


!      i 


l^U. 


rili 


I 


^..  f,"f, 


230 


A    LONG   JOURNEY. 


if;     I: 


I    :.r 


"No,"  tlio  doctor  says;  "  altliougli  your  own  asser- 
tion would  not  vindicate  you.     But  he  lias." 

"What':"' 

"  On  liis  (loath-bed  just  now,  liis  la.st  words  were 
a  vindication  of  you." 

John  Abbott  gives  a  great  gasp — whether  of 
amaze  or  relief  the  (bjcior  cannot  tell — stares  at  him 
a  moment,  grasps  the  arms  of  his  chair,  sits  erect,  and 
waits. 

"  His  last  words  vindicate  you,"  rejKsits  tlie  medi- 
cal man,  emphatically.  "'Nol»ody  did  it' — I  repeat 
what  he  said — 'it  was  an  accident.  I  fell  on  the 
knife.'  ^h•.  T^owers  and  the  Rev.  Cyrus  Brown  were 
both  listening,  as  were  also  Ids  sons.  My  dear  sir,  I 
congratulate  myself  on  being  the  first  to  bring  you  this 
goo<l  news." 

"Dr.  Gillson  feels  no  particular  regard  for  the  man 
l)efore  him,  beyond  the  regard  that  all  well-constituted 
minds  must  feel  for  a  man  who  can  sign  a  big  check 
v/ith  the  easy  grace  of  John  Abbott.  lie  has  signed 
wiore  than  one  for  the  doctor. 

There  is  a  moment's  deep  silence — the  blood  comes 
back  with  a  red  rush  to  Mr.  Abbott's  face.  A  carafe 
of  water  stands  on  the  table  ;  he  fills  himself  a  full 
glass  and  drinks  it  off.  Then  he  rises,  thrusts  his 
hands  in  his  trousers  pockets,  and  begins  walking  ex- 
citedly up  and  down. 

"  Have  you  told  my  wife  this  ?"  are  liis  first  words, 
and  the  surly  tone  of  his  previous  greeting  has  re- 
turned. 

"  Certainly  not,  Mr.  Abbott.  I  should  think  Mrs. 
Abbott  wouLl  be  the  very  last  to  hear  anything  of  this 


A   LON^G  JOURXEY. 


231 


clisasjroeable  nature.  It  is  liardly  a  topic  fitied  for  a 
(k'licate  lady's  ears," 

Mr.  Abbott  resumes  his  quick  inarch,  his  forehead 
frowning,  his  glance  sullen. 

"Look  here  !"  he  says  ;  "this  ini»>t  seem  a  fishy 
sort  of  business  to  you,  and  I  know  there  has  been  a 
deuced  deal  of  talk  about  it.  ]3rightbrook  is  such  a 
beastly  talkative  little  hole,  and  every  man  makes  his 
neighbor's  business  his  own.  I  knew  Giles  Sleaford 
years  ago — ay,  a  round  score  of  them,  and  in  the  past 
he  did  me  some — well — services,  that  I  haven't  forgot. 
No,  it  ain't  my  v/ay  to  use  a  dirty  tool,  and  then  fling 
it  aside.  I've  befriended  him,  poor  beggar,  since  ho 
oame  here.  And  I  mas  with  him  (liat  night,  by  liis 
own  request,  and  we  did  have  a  dispute.  He  had 
iiomething  belonging  to  me-r-I  wanted  it,  and  he  drew 
u  knife.  There  was  a  brief  struggle  for  the  possession 
of  the  property — mine,  mind  you,  by  every  right — and 
in  tliat  struggle  his  foot  slipped,  and  he  fell  forward 
•^n  the  weapon.  There  is  the  whole  story,  so  help  me. 
]l  don't  mind  owning  I've  been  uneasy  about  it,  for  if 
hi*^  hadn't  spoken  before  he  died,  things  looked  ugly 
for  rae.  But  he  has  spoken,  you  tell  me,  like  a  trump, 
and  told  the  truth,  by  Heaven  !  Well  ! — and  so  poor 
Giles,  poor  beggar,  is  gone  !  Well,  we  must  all  go 
when  our  time  comes.  Will  you  have  a  glass  of  wine, 
doctor?  It's  rawish  sort  of  weather,  and  the  roads 
are  beastly." 

Dr.  Gillson  knows  what  the  Abbott  vintages  are 
like,  and  accepts.  Mr.  Abbott  rings,  issues  orders,  and 
resumes  his  march. 

"  I'm  glad  you  haven't  told  my  missis.  She's  ner- 
vous, and,  as  you  say,  it  ain't  quite  the  topic  for  a  lady, 


('     ' 

m\ 

f 

i, 

*   '       1 

i'     ' 

'f 

1; 

' 

■1 

.    . 

1 

i    *  1 

i        : 

fl: 

! 

( f  I 


232 


A   LONG  JOURXEY. 


i 


I  hope  she  won't  hear  anything  of  it.  A  man  don't 
vant  liis  family  to  know  evorytliing.  And  so  ]>oot 
Gih's  is  cjono  !  Well,  well  !  lie  was  a  desperale  fellow 
in  his  time,  and  strong  as  an  ox.  It's  a  little  hole  lets 
a  man's  life  out,  ain't  it,  <loctor?  Here's  the  wine, 
doctor,     llelj)  yourself." 

"I  saw  young  Lamar  last  evening,"  the  doctor  re- 
marks ;  "fine  young  fellow  that,  and  an  honor  to  n 
noble  profession.  Capital  port  this,  JNIr.  Abbott — will 
you  try  it  yourself  ?" 

"  Saw  Lamar  ?  Saw  GeofT  ?  Xo,  did  you  though  ? 
Didn't  know  he  Avas  down.  Yes,  I'll  take  a  thimble- 
ful, my  mouth  feels  parched  to  day.  Yes,  a  fine  young 
fellow,  as  you  say,  doctor — no  call  to  lenrn  yonv  busi- 
ness. /  provide  for  him  as  if  he  M'as  my  son.  No 
need  for  /tim  ever  to  look  at  tongues,  or  feel  pulses. 
But  he  would  do  il,  sii\  Amuses  him,  I  suppose. 
This  house  will  be  his  M'h.cn  I  pass  in  my  checks.  I 
love  that  boy,  rnr,  as  if  he  was  my  own." 

From  this  moment  Mr.  Abbott's  spirits  rise,  until 
they  are  at  fever  heat.  He  drinks  his  own  wine,  he 
snaps  his  fingers  at  imaginary  foes,  he  clears  the  Red 
Farm  from  the  rabble  who  infest  it,  he  holds  up  his 
head,  and  feels  he  is  a  man  again.  He  has  never 
breathed  quite  freely  in  the  lifetime  of  Giles  Sleaford. 
It  was  like  standing  on  a  volcano,  that  might  split 
open  and  vomit  fire  at  any  moment.  And  now  Slea- 
ford has  gone,  and  cleared  his  character.  "Bully  for 
old  Giles  !  "  is  Mr.  Abbott's  somewhat  inelegant  in- 
ward exclamation,  his  eyes  sparkling,  the  fluid  color 
deep  in  his  vinous  cheeks.  Joanna,  too,  is  gone — it  is 
a  blessed  relief  to  be  rid  of  both.  He  has  nothing  to 
fear  now. 


s..«jiha^»ii,.uMs«ii«*«r.i»«w 


A    LONG   JOURNEY. 


233 


"  Even  if  they  find  them— them  things,"  Mr.  Ab- 
bott muses,  "those  losiierhoads  of  bovs  Moti't  be  uble 
to  make  top  or  tail  of  'em,  and  there  were  thinnjs  no 
living  soul  knew  but  Black  Giles  himstlf.  Tisn't 
likely  he  told  those  louts  of  his.  He  bled  me  pretty 
freely  in  his  lifetime,  and  he  wasn't  the  sort  to  be 
overburdened  with  family  affection,  or  to  care  too 
much  for  tliem  ho  left  behind  him.  But  I  wish  I  had 
— I  had  those  things." 

He  ponders  over  it  a  good  deal,  and  the  result  is, 
he  takes  his  courage  in  his  two  hands  later  in  the  day, 
and  rides  over  to  the  house  of  death.  A  large  and 
motley  assemblage  are  there,  indoors  and  out.  There 
is  to  be  a  sort  of  "  wake,"  of  a  somewhat  festive  char- 
acter too,  for  copious  refreshments  for  tiie  v/atchers 
are  in  course  of  preparation.  But  the  great  man 
of  Brightbrook  is  met  on  all  hands  by  such  dark  looks, 
and  sullen  and  sinister  glances,  such  angry,  ominous 
silence,  that  he  prudently  does  not  press  the  matter 
that  has  brought  him,  but  rides  away  again  as  he 
came.  Dan  Sleaford,  in  particuhir,  eyes  him  with  so 
much  latent  malevolence,  that  he  breathes  more 
freely,  although  no  coward,  when  half  a  mile  of  marsh 
land  lies  between  them.  It  only  confirms  him  in  his 
resolution,  however,  to  sweep,  without  loss  of  time,  all 
this  evil-disposed  vermin  off  his  land. 

Mrs.  Abbott  is  reading  a  note  when  he  enters  his 
own  drawing-room,  with  a  surprised  and  perplexed 
face.     It  runs  : 

"Brightbrook  House,  Jan.  29,  18 — . 
"  My  dear  Mother  :     I  am  pressed  for  time,  and 
80  shall  not  visit  the  house  before  returning  to  the 


. .(  ,' 


i 


^:ii} 


r.i 


(I 


(I 


'!' 


234 


A   LONG   JOURNICY. 


ci'ty.  An  important  matter  jails  me  away  for  a  few 
weeks,  so  do  not  be  anxious  if  I  am  not  with  you  for 
Bome  little  time.     Most  affectionately, 

"  Gj:ofi'I{ey  Lamar." 


K        I 


Sucli  a  strange  note — so  sliort,  so  curt,  so  incom- 
prehensible. To  go  without  calling  to  see  her,  to  be 
absent  for  some  weeks,  to  say  not  one  word  about  his 
(Summons  lo  ISleaford's,  or  what  passed  there.  Mrs. 
Abbott  sits  fairly  puzzled,  and  a  trifle  displeased.  It 
is  not  in  the  least  like  Geoffrey,  this  brusqueness,  this 
mystery. 

"Has  Geoff  come?"  Mr.  Abbott  asks,  entering  in 
high  good  spirits,  red,  bluff,  breezy. 

She  glances  at  him  in  surprise,  folds  her  note,  and 
puts  it  in  her  pocket. 

"  Geoffrey  is  not  here.  IIow  did  you  know  he  was 
down  ?" 

"  Oh  !  old  Gillson  told  me — met  him  last  night  at 
the  station.  You  don't  mean  to  say,  Leonora,  lie 
hasn't  been  here  at  all  ?" 

It  is  a  token  that  Mr.  Abbott's  spirits  are  at  their 
highest,  when  he  calls  his  wife  by  her  name,  or  gives 
her  the  loving  glance  he  does  at  this  moment.  And 
both  name  and  glance  from  him  are  particularly  odious 
to  Mrs.  Abbott.     She  rises  coldly  as  he  approaches. 

"  My  son  has  not  been  here,  jMr.  Abbott.  He  did 
come  down,  but  he  has  again  gone." 

Slie  turns  to  leave  the  room,  but  the  seigneur  of 
Ab))ott  Wood,  in  his  new-born  happiness,  interposes. 

"  Oh  !  hang  it  all,  Nora,  don't  run  away,  as  if  I 
was  the  plague  !  Sit  down  and  let  us  have  a  cozy 
talk.     A  man  might  as  well  be  married  to  an  icebergs 


A    LONG   JOURNEY. 


235 


blessod  if  he  inightii'L  I  don't  see  you  hardly  from 
one  week's  end  to  t'other.  No  man  likes  to  be  kept 
off  at  arm's  length  th;.i  way,  blessed  if  lie  dovs.  It 
ain't  nature.  I  don't  (U'mplain,  mind  you — I'm  proud 
of  you.  You're  the  handsomest  woman,  the  best- 
dressed  woman,  the  highest-stepping  woman  /  ever 
see — dashed  if  you  ain't  !  And  all  tlie  men  say  so. 
And  I  love  the  jji'ound  von  walk  on.  I  wouldn't  have 
yon  different  if  I  could.  You  suit  me  to  a  T  !  Only 
don't  be  so  stilf  and  stand-offish  all  the  time.  Do  sit 
down,  Nora,  and  let  us  have  a  cozy  cliat." 

'•  You  have  been  drinking,  JNTr.  Abbott,"  Ids  wife 
says,  in  cold  disgust  :  "  keej)  olf  !  Do  not  come  near 
me  !     I  cannot  talk  to  an  intoxicated  man." 

"  No,  I  ain't  drunk — had  a  glass  or  two,  but  bless 
yon,  I  ain't  drunk.  I  tell  you,  you're  a  stunner,  Nora, 
and  I  love  you,  by  George  I  do,  and  I  love  your  son, 
and  half  I  have  shall  be  his.  There  !  I  can't  say  no 
fairer  than  that.  It  was  tlie  best  dav  of  rav  life,  the 
day  I  married  you  ;  only  you  are  so  high  and  mighty, 
and    won't  sit    down    as    a  wife   should,  and    have  a 


•)•) 


cozy- 

But  Mrs.  Abbott  waits  to  hear  no  more  of  this 
tipsy,  uxorious  maundering.  As  he  comes  toward  her, 
she  swiftly  leaves  the  room,  retreats  to  her  own,  and 
locks  the  door.  Leo  is  there  drawing,  and  she  looks 
up  in  alarm  to  see  her  mother's  white  face,  and  burning 
dark  eyes. 

She  starts  up. 

"  IMamraa  !  what  is  it?" 

Some  vague  resemblance  to  the  man  below  looks 
at  her  out  of  Leo's  eyes,  and  she  puts  out  her  hands  ta 
keep  her  off. 


;    i 


I 


•  • 


^:l 


<?  I 


I 

i 

1 

^ 

;  ' 

i 

J; 

\ 

236 


A   LONG  JOURNEY. 


,1 


m 

;•  1  L' 


,1  ,? 

'.      1 


i 


"No!"  she  cries,  " do  not!  It  is  nothing."  She 
Binks  down  and  covers  lier  face.  "Oh!"  slio  thinks, 
with  a  bitterness  that  is  greater  than  the  bitterness  of 
death,  "  wliat  a  wretcli  I  anj  !  How  richly  I  deserve 
my  fate  !  For  his  money  I  sold  myself,  degraded  my- 
self !  Shall  I  never  get  used  to  my  foul  bondage?  I 
try,  I  pray,  I  strive,  but  in  s])ite  of  myself  I  am  grow- 
ing to  loathe  that  man." 

^  %  :)(  4:  .■):  H< 

Little  more  than  a  week  later,  and  Geoffrey  Lamar 
i)  in  San  Francisco.  Jaded,  travel-worn,  pale,  ho  goes 
about  the  business  that  has  bronu'ht  him  there,  ix'ving 
no  time  to  sight-seeing,  or  study  of  life  occidental. 
That  business  takes  hiui  to  a  church  in  the  suburbs,  to 
the  seardi  of  a  certain  register,  whore  he  finds  what 
he  fears  to  find,  what  he  has  ho))ed  he  will  not  find. 
It  takes  him  to  still  another  and  similar  errand,  and 
with  similar  result,  lie  has  been  fatally  successful  in 
both  quests.  One  more  visit  remains  to  be  made,  then 
he  returns,  with  every  hope  of  his  life  crushed  out,  it 
seems  to  him,  forever.  It  is  to  a  public  building,  a 
dingy  brick  edifice,  with  barred  and  grated  windows, 
high  spiked  walls,  and  watchful  sentinels,  but,  saddest 
of  all  prisons,  a  lunatic  asylum.  He  sees  the  resident 
pliysician  and  states  his  errand,  and  the  name  of  the 
person  he  lias  come  to  see.  The  doctor  eyes  him  curi- 
ousl5^ 

"It  is  an  odd  tiling,"  he  says,  smiling,  "  but  you 
are  the  first  visitor  in  thirteen  years  who  has  asked  to 
see  that  patient.  Yes,  she  is  here,  and  she  is  well,  that 
is,  physically.     Mentally,  of  course " 

The  doctor  taps  his  frontal  development,  and  shakes 
his  head. 


A    LONG   JOURNEY. 


237 


le 

)f 
o 


*'Is  she  a  violent  case?"  Geoffrey  asks. 

"  Oil,  dear,  no  ;  quite  the  reverse.  Gentle  as  a  ehildj 
and,  sceminjj^ly,  as  sane  as  you  or  I,  exee])l  at  intervals. 
But,  ol'  course,  it  is  all  seeming.  It  is  a  hopeless  case. 
Slie  will  never  be  any  better." 

"What  do  you  know  of  iier  history?" 

"What  do  yoiL  know  of  it?"  the  doctor  retorts. 
"Pardon  mo,  but  I  never  betrav  trust." 

"  1  know  everything.  She  has  been  here  for  fifteen 
years  ;  she  has  lost  a  child  ;  her  brother  j)laced  her 
under  your  care  for  temporary  aberration,  thinking  she 
■would  recover.  She  has  not  recovered.  She  grieves 
for  her  child,  and  it  is  i)art  of  her  lunacy  that  she 
must  wait  here  until  that  child — now  grown  uj) — conies 
for  lier.  Iler  husband  is  a  rich  man.  Your  orders  are, 
every  care  and  comfort  compatible  with  close  confine- 
ment.    Iler  name  is  Mrs.  Bennett." 

"All  correct,"  the  doctor  answers.  "I  sec  you 
know.  But  her  child  is  dead.  You  are  a  relative,  I 
presume?" 

"I  am  not  a  relative.  I  have  been  sent  here  by 
one.  But  you  mistake  in  one  point.  Iler  daughter  is 
not  dead." 

"  No  ?  You  surprise  me.  I  certainly  was  so  in- 
formed. Mr.  Bennett's  remittances  from  New  York 
are  regular  as  clock-work.  She  has  every  care  and  at- 
tention, as  you  will  see.  If  you  are  ready,  I  will  ac- 
company you  now." 

They  ascend  some  flights  of  stairs,  traverse  sundry 
corridors,  and  enter  at  last  a  pleasant,  sunny  little  room. 
There  a  woman  sits  sewing.  A  'arpet  is  on  the  floor, 
a  canary  is  in  a  cage,  some  pots  of  I'oses  and  geraniums 


'!jfiri 


f 


.■  i 


eWW-mtB^WCTB 


238 


A    LONO   JOURNKY. 


I 


ii      J  S 


h 

if 

are  in  tlio  windows,  but  the  windows  themselves  are 
gi'iited  lilve  liie  rest. 

"A  visitor  for  you,  Mrs.  licnnett,"  tile  doctor  says, 
cheerily,  "a  young  L^entlenian  from  t!>e  States." 

JMrs.  licnnetl  rises,  and  mai<es  an  old-fashi-jned 
little  courtesy.  Slie  is  a  thin-faced  lookiiiL;-  woman, 
with  dark,  wisl  ful  eyes,  and  l)hack  hair,  thickly  threaded 
with  ufray.  Once  she  must  have  been  ratiier  pretty, 
but  that  once  was  loiiLf  asjfo. 

"  I  do  not  know  you,  sir,"  she  says,  slowly  scanning 
his  features.  "Perhaps  you  bring  me  news  of  my 
child?" 

It  is  dit!icult  to  imagine  her  insane — so  gentle,  so 
colle(;ted  are  look  and  tone. 

"I  do,"  Geoffrey  answers,  with  emotion,  and  he 
takes  the  poor  creature's  hand.  "Your  daughter  is 
alive  a!id  well,  and  I  believe  will  come  for  you  before 
long." 

"  I  have  been  waiting  a  long  time,  a  very  long 
time,"  the  ])oor  soul  says,  wiping  her  eyes.  "I  get  so 
tired  sometimes,  so  tired,  and  then  I  think  perhaps 
she  will  never  come  at  all.  And  it  is  a  little  lonely 
here,"  glancing  deprecatingly  at  the  doctor,  "although 
everybody  is  very  kind  to  me,  very  kind  indeed.  But, 
oh,  I  want  my  little  Joan — my  little  Joan  !" 

The  ])athos  of  her  tone  touches  his  heart. 

"Your  little  Joan  will  come,  I  promise  you  that, 
and  very  soon,"  he  answers. 

"  And  will  she  take  me  away  ?"  with  a  wistful,  tear- 
ful glance,  "  for  I  want  to  go  away.  I  have  been  hero 
so  lon<; — so  many,  many  years.  I  would  like  a  change 
now.  I  never  make  a  noise,  do  I,  doctor?  nor  make 
trouble,  like  the  other  people  here.     I  am  very  quiet. 


A    LOXO   .lorUXKY. 


2:^0 


Anil  1  will  do  overylhiiit^  she;  tells  mo  if  she  will  only 
take  ine  away." 

"  Slu'  will  take  you  away,  T  atu  sure  of  tliat," 

"I  get  so  tircfl,  you  know,"  she  ijocs  on,  )»itoously. 
"No  one  ever  conieH  to  see  me.  ]My  luisband  is  busy 
workinLT,  and  sends  money  to  j>ay  for  me,  and,  of 
eourse,  he  cannot  leave  his  hnsiness  to  eome.  And 
Giles  has  !j;one  away.  Giles  is  my  hrot  htir,  hut  I  am 
afraid  of  him  ;  he  is  (!i'oss,  and  he  eui'ses.  So  did  my 
l»ii«iban(l,  hut  he  was  good  to  me.  I  have  been  here  a 
Icnig  time,  and  I  liave  been  very  patient,  and  now  I 
want  to  go  away,  for  I  am  tired  of  this  house,  and  so 
many  noisy  people." 

Geoffrey  reassures  her,  and  makes  a  siixn  to  the  doe- 
tor  to  go.  Tier  plaintive  voiee,  her  sad,  weary  eyes, 
pierce  his  heart.  They  bid  her  farewell,  and  leave  her 
wiping  her  po(jr  dim  eyes,  and  murmuring  softly  that 
she  will  be  very  good  if  Joan  will  only  come  and  take 
her  away. 

Three  days  later  Geoffrey  Lamar  starts  on  his  re' 
turn  iourney  to  New  York.  A  jjreatchamje  h;is  como 
over  him.  That  old  look  of  invincible  resolution  has 
deepened  to  gloomy  sternness  ;  he  has  aged  in  three 
days — he  looks  ten  years  older  than  on  the  night  he 
Hat  by  Giles  Sleaford's  death-bed.  All  the  youth  fid 
brightness  has  gone — care-worn,  liaggard,  silent,  he 
sits  the  long  days  through,  while  the  land  whirls  by 
him,  seeing  nothing  of  all  that  ])asses,  hearing  nothing 
of  all  that  goes  on.  Wraj  ped  in  himself  and  his  somber 
1  houolils,  thinkini;,  thinking;  always — so  the  time  wears, 
and  at  last  the  lung  overland  jouiney  is  at  an  end,  an<l 
he  treads  the  familiar  New  i'oi'k  streets  once  more. 

He  makes  no  delay  in  the  city.     What  must  be 


iri 


■  I  '* 

t 


\\\ 


1,  I 


m 


iifii 


240 


A    LONG   JOUKNKY. 


i! 


i 


done  is  best  done  (jiiickly.  All  his  plans  are  formed 
beyond  posslMIity  of  clianufc — new  plans  for  a  now 
life.  The  |>asl  is  di-ad  and  done  with,  a  wholly  new 
existence  nnist,  he^in  for  him  at  once. 

He  ufoi's  down  to  Hrighlbiook,  and  reaches  the  vil- 
hii^c  lale  in  (he  afternoon.  The  sunset  of  a  sparkling 
winli'r  day  is  jialing  its  crimson  tires,  and  tingin<jj  with 
its  nd»y  glow  the  trees,  the  urns,  tlie  western  windows 
of  the  great  house.  He  enters  the  avenue  on  foot,  and 
Av;ilks  u]>  under  those  noble  ti'ees  with  a  quick,  firm 
8tep.  "For  the  last  time,"  lie  thinks,  as  he  looks 
around.  And  it  was  to  have  been  his — his  home — this 
fair  domain,  this  goodly  iidieritance.  For  ifs  loss  ho 
feels  no  pang — a  far  heavier  blow  has  fallen  U|)on  him. 
The  loss  of  fortune  can  be  borne — the  loss  of  honor  is 
all.     Antl  all  is  lost — even  honor. 

Jle  asks  for  Mr.  Abbott,  and  is  shown  into  the  li- 
brary where  that  gentleman  sits,  perusing  the  evening 
paper  and  smoking  a  cigar.  He  smokes  and  drinks  a 
great  deal.  At  sight  of  his  stepson  he  starts  up, 
throws  down  the  paper,  turns  with  radiant  face,  and 
holds  out  both  hands. 

"What— Geotn  Back?  Dear  old  boy,  how  we 
liave  missed  you.  And  where  have  you  been  all  this 
little  forever  ?" 

He  stands  with  those  welcoming  hands  outstretched, 
a  glow  deeper  than  the  glow  of  the  sunset,  streaming 
through  the  i);iinted  oriel,  deeper  than  the  port  wine 
he  drinks,  on  his  rubicund  face — the  glad  glow  of 
welcome.  JJut  Geoifrey  Lamar,  pale,  stern,  avenging, 
draws  back  from  those  eager  hands, 

"  No,"  he  says,  "  we  have  shaken  hands  for  the  last 
time.     I  stand  in  this  house,  and  speak  to  you  for  the 


LEO'S    BALL. 


241 


!i 


last  time.  It  is  tho  bitter  blij^ht  and  disgrace  of  my 
life,  that  I  have  ever  spoken  to  yon  at  all  I  " 

Thu  man  falls  bac^k  from  biu^,  liis  hands  drop,  his 
eyes  start,  he  stands  Htariniij  stupidly  at  his  stepson. 

"  Wliat — whar--\vhat  d'ye  mean  't  "  he  stammers  a;, 
last. 

"What  I  say.  On  his  death-bed  Giles  Sleaford 
sent  for  me,  an<l  told  me  his  story — and  yours.  I 
know  the  black  secrt't  that  has  bound  you  two  jifuilty 
men  toijjether.  I  hohl  the  papers  that  cost  him  his 
life.  I  have  been  to  San  Francisco,  and  have  verified 
the  proofs  of  your  guilt.  And  John  Abbott,  scoundrel 
and  BIGAMIST,  I  have  returned  to  denounce  you!'''' 


M 


*♦» 


CHAPTER  X. 


LEO'S  BALL. 


TIE  last  light  of  the  fair,  frosty  day,  gloam- 
ing in  myriad  hues  through  the  stained 
glass,  falls  on  the  picture  within  the 
library — the  darkly-polished  floor,  with  its 
great  rose-red  square  of  carpet,  its  pictures,  bronzes, 
books,  and  on  the  figures  of  the  two  men.  On  John 
Abbott,  millionaire  and  magnate,  sitting  huddled  to- 
gether in  his  arm-chair,  his  face  covered  with  his 
hands,  his  guilt  brought  home  to  him,  unable  to  look 
for  one  second  into  the  fiery  eyes  of  Geoffrey  Lamar. 
On  Geoffrey  Lamar,  standing  haughty  and  wrathful, 
with  gleaming  eyes,  compressed  lips,  and  knotted  fore- 
head. On  that  high,  pale  brow  the  veins  stand  out, 
11 


242 


leg's  ball. 


i . 


I  i  I 


'■ '.  I- 


U  ; 


Bwollen  and  purple,  witli  the  suppressed  passion  within 
him.  And  yet,  little  has  been  said,  and  that  little  in  a 
tense,  repressed  t<uie,  lower  even  than  usual. 

It  is  only  on  the  stage,  perhaps,  that  people  in  these 
Bupreme  moments  of  death  and  despair  make  long 
speeches,  only  in  tiction  that  the  dying  lie  among  their 
downy  pillows  and  make  exhaustive  confessions  of 
romantic  lives.  In  real  life,  in  the  hours  of  our  utmost 
need,  we  are  apt  to  find  ourselves  mute. 

John  Abbott  has  not  spoken  one  word.  lie  has 
attempted  no  denial,  no  vindication  ;  he  has  fallen  into 
his  chair,  an  1  crouches  (here,  crushed  by  the  tremen- 
dous blow  that  has  fallen  upon  him.  Geoffrey  speaks 
at  intervals,  in  a  harsh,  imsteady  voice,  very  unlike  his 
own,  but  the  fiery  wrath  that  consumes  hira  is  so  deep, 
so  deadly,  his  hatred  and  abhorrence  of  this  man  so 
utter,  that  all  words  fail  and  seem  poor  and  weak. 

"  I  have  little  to  say,"  he  says,  in  that  low,  concen- 
trated voice  of  passion.  "  I  was  a  child  when  the 
wrong  was  done.  I  am  a  man  now,  and  I  do  not  strike 
you  dead  before  nie,  and  nothing  less  can  atone.  This 
IS  the  last  time  I  will  see  you  or  speak  to  you  while  I 
live  ;  the  last  time  I  will  ever  set  foot  in  this  accursed 
house.  I  go  from  you  to  my  mother,  to  tell  her  the 
truth — the  horrible,  shameful  truth,  that  may  strike 
her  den d  while  she  listens.  But  if  I  knew  it  would,  I 
would  still  tell  heK" 

He  breaks  off  ;  all  this  he  has  said  in  pauses  and 
gasps.  He  puts  up  his  hand  to  his  throat ;  he  feels  as 
though  he  were  strangling.  For  the  cowering  wretch 
before  him,  he  neither  moves  nor  speaks. 

"  If  she  survives  the  blow,  she  will  go  with  me.  If 
I  know  my  mother,  you  have  seen  her,  too,  for  the  last 


■  ^ 


;i 


LEOVs    BALL. 


243 


time  in  your  life.  For  your  wealth,  your  doubly-ac- 
cursed wealth,  sjje  married  you  !  She  has  paid  the 
penalty  of  that  crime.  She  will  renounce  you  and 
it  within  this  hour.     If  she  should  not " 

lie  stops,  that  strangling  feeling  of  fury  that  ho 
is  repressing  chokes  the  words  he;  would  utter. 

"  If  she  should  not,"  he  resumes,  "  she  shall  see 
ino  no  more.  But  I  know  hur.  She  will  jro  with  me. 
Leo,  too — she  is  vours  no  longer.  I  will  make  a  home 
for  them,  far  from  here,  where  your  vile  name  will 
never  be  heard.  I  will  search  for  Joanna — she,  too, 
shall  know  the  truth — shall  know  your  crime — shall 
know  her  rights  and  her  mother's  wrongs,  and  to 
h«u'  and  God  1  leave  vengeance.  Do  you  think  she 
will  spare  you,  John  Abbott  'i  Do  you  know  the  pen- 
alty of  the  crime  you  have  done  ?  Six  months  hence, 
in  a  felon's  cell,  condemned  to  years  of  labor,  I  fancy 
your  millions  will  avail  you  little.  I  am  willing  that 
my  name,  stainless  hitherto,  should  be  dragged 
through  the  mire,  so  that  you  are  punished.  To  your 
daughter,  and  to  heaven,  I  leave  our  wrongs.  I  go 
now  to  find  my  mother." 

"  Stay  !"  John  Abbott  says.  lie  lifts  his  head,  and 
even  Geoffrey,  in  his  whirl  of  rage  and  shame,  is  struck 
by  the  ghastliness  of  that  face.  His  voice,  too,  is 
hoarse  and  guttural.  "  Stay  I  I  have  no  right  to  ask 
favors — I  don't  ask  any.     But — don't  tell  to-night." 

Geoffrey  stares  scornfully  a  moment,  then  turns 
to  go. 

"  I  don't  ask  it  for  myself — to  be  spared.  I  don't 
want  to  be  spared.  But  there  is  a  party  to-night — 
Leo's."  All  his  words  come  thickly  and  with  a  slow 
effort.     "The  hou^e  u  full  of  people  down  from  New 


.  1 


1 1 

\\  if 


\-   ' 


it 


244 


LEO'S    BALL. 


!-i  ! 


.M 


I'' 


York — her  friends  and  your  mother's.  All  is  ready. 
Spare  the  little  one  for  one  more  night — only  one. 
Let  her  be  happy  with  her  friends  until  to-morrow. 
Come  to-morrow — come  as  early  as  you  like.  It  is  «"11 
true,  I  deny  nothing.  Take  them  away.  Only  not 
to-night — for  little  Leo's  sake  !" 

He  says  it  all  in  brief,  broken  sentences  ;  then  his 
head  droops,  and  he  is  silent  again. 

Geoffrey  stands  a  moment.  For  Leo's  sake  !  That 
is  a  powerful  appeal.  And  only  until  to-morrow. 
The  house  full  of  guests  too  ;  the  exposure  would  be 
horrible.     And  for  Leo's  sake.     Yes,  he  will  wait. 

"For  Leo's  sake,"  he  says  frigidly,  "  I  will  wait 
until  to-morrow.  To-morrow  at  noon  I  will  send  for 
my  mother*  to  the  hotel.     I  enter  this  house  no  more." 

He  goes  with  the  words,  and  the  master  of  Abbott 
wood  is  alone.  Alone  !  with  hell  in  his  heart,  with 
despair,  and  remorse,  and  agony,  and  loss,  and  love, 
and  fear,  all  tugging  at  his  heart-strings  together.  It 
has  come — the  crash  he  has  always  feared.  The 
thunderbolt  has  fallen  and  riven  his  hearth.  Giles 
Sleaford,  in  his  grave,  has  risen  to  revenge  his  sister's 
wrongs. 

The  last  yellow  glimmer  of  the  M'intry  twilight 
fades  out  in  gray  ;  darkness  falls  on  the  world.  Many 
feet  pass  his  door  ;  a  servant  enters  to  light  the  gas — 
the  library  will  be  needed  to-night.  John  Abbott 
stumbles  past  him  in  the  dark,  and  goes  to  the  room 
that  is  sacred  to  himself  alone — the  room  called  his 
stiidy,  where  he  sees  his  tenants,  transacts  business. 
signs  checks,  pays  help,  and  smokes  pipes.  Here  he 
will  be  undisturbed  by  his  servants,  bis  wife,  bii 
daughter,  or  their  butterfly  friends. 


i 


1 


leg's  ball. 


245 


This  party  of  Leo's  is  in  honor  of  a  young  South- 
ern beauty,  a  friend  of  Olga  Ventnor's,  on  the  eve  of 
her  departure  for  Europe.  It  is  called  Leo's  ball,  but 
in  reality  it  is  not  merely  a  young  girl's  party  ;  many 
distinguished  people  are  present — her  mother's  friends, 
besides  the  great  folks  of  Brightbrook,  Tlie  Ventnors, 
of  course,  are  down — Olga  from  her  finishing  school, 
tall  and  imposing,  even  at  sixteen,  with  proudly-poised 
bead,  delicate,  lovely  face,  perfect  repose  of  manner 
— more  beautiful  than  her  most  sanguine  friends  ever 
predicted.  A  trifle  imperious,  certainly,  as  though  she 
were  indeed  a  Princess  Olga,  looking  with  blue,  dis- 
dainful eyes  on  t!  e  slim-waisted,  slightly-mustached 
young  dandies  who  adore  her.  They  write  sonnets  to 
her  eyes  and  eyebrows,  her  smile,  her  form  ;  they  paint 
her  picture  ;  they  toast  her  at  clubs  ;  they  dream  of 
her  o'  nights  ;  they  grow  delii-ious  with  the  promise 
of  a  waltz  ;  they  kiss  her  gloves,  her  finger-tips  ;  they 
are  ready  to  shoot  each  other  for  a  flower  from  her 
bouquet — and  she  laughs  at  them  all,  with  girlish,  jo;^- 
ous  indifference,  and  tyrannizes  over  them  with  right 
royal  grace.  That  compact  in  which  Frank  Living- 
ston is  concerned  has  not  been  mooted  to  her  yet,  and 
the  family  conclave  begin  to  have  their  doubts  as  to 
how  it  will  be  received. 

A  young  lady  who  has  such  pronounced  opinions 
of  her  own  at  sixteen,  as  to  the  color  and  make  of  her 
dresses,  and  hats,  and  gloves,  will  be  apt  to  have  pro- 
nounced opinions,  also,  on  the  more  important  subject 
of  a  husband.  Frank  at  present  is  abroad  on  a  sketch- 
ing tour,  it  is  understood,  through  Italy  and  Switzer- 
land, and  sends  her  long,  racy  letters  by  every  mail. 
But  she  laughs  at  the  letters,  as  she  u^    '.  at  the  ador 


PI 


>r 


'  ■   I 


i 


I 


.:«'!■ 


>    I 
t 


'■  ' 

tiu 

^ 

I'^l 


i     I  V„ 


!'        'I 


,'! 


#11 


i* 


246 


LEO  S    BALL. 


ers,  and  flings  thera  aside  as  indifferently.  Whether 
she  walks  in  "mriden  meditation"  or  not,  she  is  cer- 
tainly "  fancy  free."  To-night,  in  white  silk  embroi- 
dered with  pink  rose-buds,  with  real  pink  rosebuds  and 
lilies  of  the  valley  in  her  hair  and  corsage,  it  is  need- 
less to  say  she  is  a  vision  of  beauty.  That  goes  with- 
out saying  at  all  times. 

Leo,  too,  in  rose  silk  and  illusion,  looks  like  a  rose 
herself,  her  bright  black  eyes  shining  after  their  old 
joyous  fashion  with  ihe  delight  of  the  hour. 

The  rooms  are  flooded  with  light,  flowers  are  in 
profusion  everywhere,  the  guests  are  numerous,  the 
supper  and  band  down  from  the  city,  and  Mrs.  Abbott 
in  pearl  moire  and  those  fabulous  diamonds  that  might 
rival  Lady  Dudley's  own — quite  an  ideal  hostess  for 
high-bred  beauty  and  grace.  Outwardly,  that  perfect 
repose  seems  above  being  ruflied  by  any  earthly  con- 
tretemps,  but  inwardly  she  is  ruffled  nevertheless.  For 
Leo  has  just  told  her,  with  wide-open,  wondering  eyes, 
that  Geoffrey  has  been  and  is  gone. 

"Impossible!"  Mrs.  Abbott  says,  incredulously. 
"Why  on  earth  should  he  do  that?  There  must  be 
some  mistake." 

"No  mistake,  mamma  ;  Davis  let  him  in.  He 
went  to  papa  in  the  library,  stayed  half  an  hour,  and 
went  away." 

"  Without  word  or  message  to  me  !  And  after  six 
weeks  of  absence  !  Oh,  this  is  intolerable  !  Geoffrey 
never  used  to  act  so.     What  can  it  mean  ?" 

"  /  don't  know,  mamma,"  Leo  says  ;  "  it  is  very 
odd,  certainly.  Perhaps,  hearing  there  was  to  be  a 
party,  he  did  not  wish  to  stay.  But  it  is  not  a  bit  like 
Geoff." 


LEO's    BALL. 


24? 


I 


I 


"Here  is  your  father  now." 

A  slight  frown  contracts  Mrs.  Abbott's  smooth 
forehead — her  husband  has  given  her  to  understand 
he   will   not  put  in   an   appearance  at  this  party,  and 

now She   misses  Joanna  as  much,  perhaps,    for 

this  reason  as  any  other — she  was  a  most  useful  sheep- 
dog to  keep  this  wolf  at  bay.  These  people  are  nearly 
all  strangers  to  him — why  should  he  want  to  join  them  ? 
It  is  his  own  house  certainly,  but 

"I  wanted  to  see  you  a  moment,  Nora,"  he  says, 
approaching,  and  even  she  notes  with  surprise  the 
livid,  leaden  pallor  of  his  face,  the  trembling  of  bin 
hands,  the  husky  break  of  his  voice,  "  a  moment  alone." 

"There  is  nothing  the  matter?"  she  demands,  in 
sudden  alarm.     "Geoffrey,  it  is  nothing  about  him?'''^ 

"It  is  nothing  about  him." 

"But  he  has  been  here,  and  is  gone.  What  does  it 
mean  ?      You  saw  him — why  did  he  not  come  to  me  ?" 

"  On  account  of  this  party.  He's  coming  to-raor- 
row — at  b'ast  he  intends  to  see  you.  I — I  don't  feel 
well,  Nora  ;  I  am  going  to  my  room — the  study.  I 
shall  stay  there  all  night." 

"  Yes,"  she  says,  indifferently,  "  you  had  better. 
You  do  not  look  well.  Excuse  me — I  see  a  new  ar- 
rival." 

"  Shake  hands,  Nora,  and  say  good-night." 

She  draws  back  from  him,  intensely  annoyed.  Has 
he  been  drinking  more  than  usual?  Shake  hands  with 
him  before  all  these  people  !  What  a  preposterous 
idea  !     She  draws  decidedly  back. 

"There  is  no  need  of  hand-shaking,  Mr.  Abbott. 
I  havo  no  wish  to  excite  my  friends  to  laughter — nor 
make  a  scene.     You  had  better  go  to  bed,  as  you  say. 


t 


:;'■  I 


1-  \  > 


i;i 


'1l 

i 

! 

j 

_ 

1 1 


Hi    : 

'1 

Hn  '^'^ 

i 

' 

1 

:  j 
■  p 

1 

1 

1 

M  i 


Ik 


248 


leg's  ball. 


and  as  quickly  as  possible.  You  really  look  extremely 
ill,  and  are  attracting  the  attention  of  the  guests." 

His  hand  drops  ;  he  takes  one  last,  long,  look  as  she 
moves  away  to  meet  the  new  arrival.  She  is  like  a 
queen,  he  thinks — so  stately,  so  graceful,  so  fair. 
Among  all  the  women  present,  there  is  not  another  so 
regal.  Then  he  turns  away,  and  at  a  little  distance 
encounters  his  daughter. 

"  Wliy,  papa,"  she  exclaims,  quickly,  "  what  is  the 
matter?  You  are  looking  awfully  pale — for  you. 
Are  you  sick  ?  " 

"  I  ain't  well,  Leo.  I'm  going  to  my  room,  the  study, 
you  know.  I  came  to  say  good-night.  That's  a 
pretty  dress,  my  girl,  and  you  look  as  fresh  and  pink 
as  a  rose.  I'm  glad  to  see  you  so  handsome  and  happy. 
You — you  are  a  little  fond  of  your  poor  old  dad,  ain't 
you,  Leo  ?  " 

"Why,  papa " 

"  Oh  !  yes,  I  know.  I  ain't  like  your  mother,  or 
those  heavy  swells  around,  but  I've  been  a  good  fath;r 
to  you,  now,  haven't  I  ?  I  don't  think  I  ever  refused 
you  anything  in  ray  life,  now  did  I  ?  And  you'd — you'd 
be  sorry  if  anything  happened  me,  now  wouldn't  you  ?  " 

Leo  looks  at  him  anxiously.  The  same  thought, 
alas  !  crosses  her  mind  as  her  mother's — has  he  been 
drinking  ?  Mr.  Abbott  is  apt  to  be  maudlin  in  his 
cups,  so  his  pathos  is  always  open  to  doubt. 

"  You  had  better  go  to  bed,  papa,"  says  Leo,  as  her 
mother  has  done.  "You  look  very  badly.  And  per- 
haps you  had  better  send  for  Dr.  Gillson." 

"  I  don't  want  Dr.  Gillson,  my  girl.  I  know  what 
you're  thinking  of,  but  it  ain't  that.  I'm  not  drunk. 
Good-night,  little  one — kiss  your  old  dad." 


I 


A 


h 


LEO'S    BALL. 


249 


Miss  Leo's  pink  lips  touch  daintily  the  cold  check 
of  her  father.  Then  she,  too,  flits  away  to  meet  her 
partner  for  the  first  dance.  Mr.  Abbott  is  not  a  sub- 
ject to  be  sentimentalized  over,  even  if  he  is  a  little 
pale.  Much  drinking  has  alienated  from  him  even  the 
respect  and  Jiffection  of  his  laughter,  although  she  is 
fairly  fond  of  papa,  too.  But  it  is  not  in  the  same  way 
or  degree  in  whicn  she  is  fond  of  mamma  and  Geoff. 

Mr.  Abbott  goes  to  his  study,  followed  by  the 
crashing,  brilliant  music  of  the  band.  Ladies  and  gen- 
tlemen glance  at  him,  and  wonder  who  he  is.  His  face 
strikes  them  all  with  a  sense  of  tragedy  and  discord, 
that  jars  upon  the  scene.  But  he  disappears  and  is 
forgotten.  He  shuts  himself  in,  but  he  does  not  shut, 
out  the  triumphal  swell  of  the  music,  nor  the  sound  of 
the  dancers'  feet.  The  joyous  tumult  of  the  ball 
mocks  him  in  his  seclusion.  He  has  shut  out  the  world 
with  its  brightness,  its  gladness,  its  joyous  life,  and  the 
world  goes  on  just  as  merrily  without  him.  It  comes 
well  home  to  him  in  this  hour.  He  has  been  something 
— he  is  nothing — he  will  never  be  anything  in  thia 
world  again. 

He  sits  down  and  has  it  out.  It  does  not  require  long 
thinking.  To-night  ends  everything.  To-morrow  he  will 
stand  alone,  w^ife,  son,  daughter,  home,  friends — gone. 
And  he  has  loved  them  all.  After  to-morrow  all  who 
have  known  him  will  fall  off  from  him,  his  name  will  be  a 
by-word  and  a  reproach,  his  memory  a  thing  to  be  exe- 
crated. He  will  be  denounced — is  the  girl  Joanna  likely 
to  spare  him  ?  There  will  be  a  trial  through  which  his 
wife,  his  daughter  will  be  dragged,  and  their  name  de- 
Sled.  There  will  be  the  sentence — the  prison  walls, 
the  prison  dress,  the  prison  labor,  the  prisoa  fare,  the 


'\i 


■A 


1 


i: 


:!i! 


ill 

'  1 


,.i! 


'■<■, 

i 


250 


leg's  ball. 


tpi 


prison  life,  the  chain,  the  lash,  the  prison  death— that 
will  be  the  story.     All  his  wealth  is  powerless  here. 

He  go(?s  to  a  drawer  in  a  desk,  unlocks  it  with  slow 
deliberation,  and  takes  out  one  of  the  articles  it  con- 
tains. It  is  a  revolver,  a  handsome  weapon,  silver- 
mounted,  perfect  of  its  kind.  He  examines  the  cham- 
bers, reloads  carefully,  and  with  a  face  that  seems  cut 
in  gray  stone.  And  still,  as  he  labors  at  his  ghastly 
task,  the  dance  music  swells  and  sinks  joyously,  the 
sound  of  the  dancers'  flying  feet,  the  echo  of  their 
laughter  reach  him,  and  he  listens  as  he  works.  Then 
he  goes  to  the  window,  opens  the  closed  sJ:utter,  and 
looks  out. 

It  is  a  lovely  night,  following  a  lovely  day.  The 
deep  blue  sky  a-sparkle  with  frosty  stars,  the  moon 
flooding  lawn,  and  terrace,  and  copse  with  crystal 
light.  Never  has  Abbott  Wood  looked  more  beauti- 
ful, never  has  he  loved  it  so  well.  He  is  taking  his 
last  look  at  it,  at  the  cold,  far-off,  shining  sky,  at  the 
fair  white  earth,  at  his  home  that  has  been  his  pride 
and  boast  so  long.  He  is  hearkening  to  the  sweet 
<rash  of  the  band — the  wild  music  of  a  waltz  will  be 
the  last  sound  of  time  he  will  take  into  eternity. 

For  the  end  has  come.  The  wages  of  sin — death 
— is  here  ;  the  coward's  cure  for  all  ills  of  earth — sui- 
cide— is  at  hand.  He  will  never  see  the  scorn,  the 
hatred  in  his  wife's  eyes,  the  shrinking  horror  of  his 
daughter's  face,  the  abhorrent  gaze  of  all  men.  For 
him  there  will  be  no  felon's  cell,  or  lash.  His  sin  has 
found  him  out,  and  the  retribution  is  now. 

He  lifts  the  pistol.  A  gay  burst  of  laughter  just 
outside  his  dooi  greets  him  on  the  moment.  Over  that 
merry  peal,  over  the  last  soft  strain  of  the  waltzers^ 


I 


AFTER  THAT   NIOIIT. 


251 


another  sound  breaks — a  dreadful  sound.  But  it 
reaches  no  ear,  and  only  the  solemn  eyes  of  the  stars 
look  into  that  silent  room. 


\ 


CHAPTER  XI. 


AFTER   THAT   NIGHT. 


T  is  close  upon  noon  of  the  next  day.  Sun- 
shine floods  the  charminnr  breakfast-room 
of  Abbolt  Wood,  glints  on  crystal,  on 
silver,  on  egg-shell  china,  and  on  a  group  of 
gay  guests,  on  the  lady  of  the  house  in  exquisite  morn- 
ing-robe and  cap,  on  her  pretty  daughter  in  amber 
cashmere,  rich  with  golden  floss  embroideries.  The 
guests  have  had  a  brief  nap,  a  cozy  cup  of  tea,  and 
now  "  booted  and  spurred,"  are  saying  farewell  to 
1  heir  gracious  hostess  and  her  bright  little  daughter. 
'Phe  party  last  night  was  delightful.  All  are  departing 
)a  fine  spirits,  making  appointments  for  the  coming 
summer  and  country  meetings.  They  go  at  last,  and 
with  a  tired  sigh  Mrs.  Abbott  sinks  into  her  chair. 
She  is  not  very  strong,  and  last  night's  fatigue  tells 
upon  her  after  her  quiet  life.  Besides,  she  is  worried 
about  her  son.  Here  it  is  high  noon,  and  he  has  not 
put  in  an  appearance  to  explain  his  singular  conduct. 
As  she  sits  musing  about  it  her  maid  approaches  with 
a  note.     It  is  from  the  culprit,  and  is  very  brief. 

"Brightbrook  House,  Thursday  Morning. 
"My  Dear  Motuer  : — I  am  especially  anxious  to 


li  ' 


I  ( 


»■  • 


"jM, 


If 


<.i 


2i52 


AFTER  THAT   NIGHT. 


I 


860  you,  but  I  cannot  go  to  Abbott  Wood,  so,  I  sup- 
pose, I  must  ask  you  to  moot  me  here  at  your  earliest 
convenience.  I  will  remain  in  all  day  expecting  you. 
Love  to  Leo.      Ever  affectionately, 

"G.  V.Lamar." 

Mrs.  Abbott  knits  her  brows  in  direst  perplexity 
over  this  enigmatical  note.  "Cannot  go  to  Abbott 
Wood!"  liut  he  was  here  last  night.  "Must  ask 
you  to  meet  me  liere  !  "  How  very  odd  ;  how  ex- 
tremely unpleasant.  What  can  it  mean  ?  Is  Geoffrey 
losing  his  senses?  She  will  go  at  once  and  find  out. 
Her  hand  is  on  the  bell,  when  her  maid  again  hurries 
in,  pale,  scared,  horror-stricken. 

"  Oh  !  Mrs.  Abbott !  Oh  !  madam  !  something 
awful  has  happened  !"  The  girl  drops  into  a  chair 
panting  with  sheer  affright.  "  Oh  !  ma'am,  I  don't 
know  liow  to  tell  you." 

Mrs.  Abbott  looks  at  her  a  moment  and  grows 
white. 

"  Is  it — anything  about  my  son  ?"  she  asks,  almost 
in  a  whisper. 

"  Mr.  Geoffrey  ?  Oh  !  no,  ma'am,  nothing  about 
him.  It's  master,  please.  Oh  !  how  shall  I  tell  you  I 
It's  dreadful — dreadful !" 

Mrs.  Abbott  draws  a  long  breath,  and  stands  erect 
again,  pale,  composed,  a  trifle  haughty.  There  is 
nothing  about  Mr.  Abbott  that  can  very  greatly  sur- 
prise or  shock  Mr.  Abbott's  wife. 

"  Do  pot  be  an  idiot !"  she  says,  sharply.  "  What 
is  it  ?  Say  what  you  have  come  to  say,  and  go.  I  am 
going  out." 

"  Oh  !  no,  ma'am,  you  can't  go  out  to-day.    Oh  1  1 


AFTER  THAT   NIGHT. 


253 


t 


bcjy  pardon,  but  you  don't  know.  Pi-ef)aro  yourself — ■ 
oh  !  please  do — for — for  the  worst.  Mr.  Abbott  is 
very — very  ill." 

Mth.  Abbott  recalls  his  looks,  his  Incoherent  speech 
last  night,  and  slightly  shrugs  her  graceful  shoulders. 
It  has  happened  to  Mr.  Abbott  to  be  very — very  ill 
before,  of — delirium  tremens  ! 

"  Have  you  sent  for  Dr.  Gillson?"  she  says,  coldly, 
and  moving  away  as  if  to  go. 

"  Oh  !  my  dear  lady,  wait  !  It — it  isn't  what  you 
think.  Dr.  Gillson  was  here  hours  and  hours  ago,  but 
he  can  do  nothing.  Nobody  can.  Oh  !  ma'am,"  with 
a  burst,  "  master's  dead  !" 

"  Dead  !"  Mrs.  Abbott  repeats  the  solemn  word, 
awe-stricken,  and  gazes  incredulously  at  the  girl. 
"  Dead  !"  tliat  strong,  burly,  red-faced  man.  'I'ho 
thought  of  dealli  in  connection  with  her  husband  has 
never  come  near  her — he  and  the  idea  have  been  so 
entirely  antagonistic.  "Dead  !"  she  repeats  for  the 
third  time,  mechanically,  in  slow,  wondering  tones. 

"Davis,  his  man,  fonnd  him  early  this  morning, 
ma'am,"  the  girl  says,  with  a  hysterical,  feminine  sob, 
"and  sent  for  the  doctoral  once.  But  it  was  too  late. 
He  had  been  dead  many  hours  then.  The  doctor  knew 
the  house  was  full  of  people,  and  would  not  let  Davis 
tell  until  they  were  gone.  He  is  in  his  study  still, 
ma'am,  where  they  found  him,  a-lying  on  the  sofa, 
dressed.  And,  oh  !  if  you  please,  there's  to  be  an  in- 
quest." 

Mrs.  Abbott  sits  down,  feeling  suddenly  sick  and 
faint.  A  passion  of  remorse  sweeps  over  her  ;  she 
covers  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  her  tears  flow, 
Idle  tears,  no  doubt — not  tears  of  sorrow  certainly 


■  \ 


■■  I 


I  i 


I  * 


% 


■\f 


254 


APrEU  THAT   NIOIIT. 


!■;■ 


!':' 


>li 


Slie  has  nover  cared  for  tins  Joa<l  man — she  committed 
a  sill  aL^'iiiist  luTHclf  and  her  womanhood  by  marrying 
him.  JiitV'hy  hissich'h.is  been  l)nt  "  drapfging  a  lenjjjtli- 
ening  chain."  She  has  lield  him  in  utter  contempt, 
and  has  h't  him  see  it.  13ut*'he  who  dies  pays  all 
debts  ;"  and  now,  for  all  this,  a  very  passion  of  pain, 
of  remorse,  of  Immiliation,  tills  her.  Arul,  last  night, 
he  came  to  her  in  some  great  neo<l,  and  she  rebuffed 
him  !  Now  he  is  dead  !  But  moments  of  weakness 
are  but  moments  with  this  woman,  whose  life  for  many 
years  has  been  one  long,  bitter  self-repression.  JSho 
lifts  her  head  and  looks  at  the  girl  again. 

"It  is  very  snd<len — it  is  dreadfully  sudden.  Was 
it — apoplexy  ?" 

The  maid  resumes  her  weeping  as  her  mistress 
leaves  off.  It  is  not  sorrow  on  her  part  either — simply, 
the  shock  has  unnerved  her. 

"  Oh  !  ma'am — Mrs.  Abbott — that  is  the  worst ! 
bfo,  it  isn't  apoplexy — is  isn't  anything  natural.  It 
t^as  suicide  !" 

"  Suicide  !"  The  lady  recoils  a  step  in  pale  horror, 
liid  puts  out  her  hands. 

"  Oh  !  dear  lady,  yes.  That  is  the  awful  part.  It 
was  suicide.  He  shot  himself.  While  everybody 
was  dancing  and  enjoying  themselves  last  night,  he 
went  into  his  study  and  done  it.  Davis  found  him  all 
cold  and  stiff  this  morning — shot  through  tiiC  head. 
Oh,  dear  !  oh,  dear  !  Oh  !  Mrs.  Abbott,  don't  faint ! 
Oh  !  here  is  Mr.  Geoffrey.  Oh  !  thank  the  Lord  !  Mr. 
Geoffrey,  sir,  come  arwl  say  something  to  your  ma  !" 

For  it  is  Geoffrey  who  hurries  in,  pale,  excited, 
with  startled  face,  and  hastens  to  his  mother's  side. 

"  My  dearest  mother,  the  news  has  but  just  reached 


' 


I'ri 

iil! 


AFTER  THAT   NTOHT. 


255 


I 


me.  Dr.  Gillson  brought  it,  and  I  li.ivo  hastoncd  here 
at  once.  It  Is  very  slioekinLj.  Mother,  do  not  give 
way  so  !     Mother,  mother,  what  is  this?" 

"I  have  killed  iiim,"  she  whiH|)«'rs  and  her  head  falls 
on  his  shoulder,  her  arms  eneirele  "I'.s  ne(^k,  and  she 
lies  white  and  spei'chless  with  horror  and  remorse. 

"Nothinjx  of  the  sort  !"  her  non  says,  energetically. 
"  Mother,  listen  to  me — I  know  what  I  am  sayint; — 
you  had  nothing  to  do  with  this  tragii?  death.  It  was 
I.  1  saw  him  last  night — a  terrible  sec^ret  of  his  past 
life  has  hriMi  made  known  to  mt*,  and  I  came  and 
accused  liim  of  his  ci'ime.  I  threatened  him  with 
public  exposure.  This  is  the  residt.  I  do  not  regret 
my  |)art  in  it;  I  simply  did  my  duty;  I  would  do  it 
again.  I  repeat — with  this  jjliastly  ending  vou  had 
nothing  to  do.  And,  mother,  he  deserved  his  fate; 
he  merits  no  pity — from  you.  He  was  a  villain — dead 
as  he  is — I  say  it !  Look  up,  shed  no  tears  for  him, 
except  in  thanksgiving  that  you  are  free." 

All  this  the  maid  hears  as  she  hurries  from  the 
rjom.  She  sees  the  stern,  white  face  of  the  pitiless 
young  Rhadaraantlms,  and  wonders  what  nameless 
<;nme  it  can  be  poor  master  can  ever  have  done. 

1*  n*  *!•  I*  V  T* 

Four  days  later  they  bury  the  master  of  Abbott 
Wood  in  that  vast  gray  stone  vault  over  in  Bright- 
brook  Cemetery — that  gray  mausoleum  bearing  the 
name  Abbott  over  its  gloomy  front,  and  which,  until 
time  ends,  John  Abbott  will  occupy  alone. 

It  is  a  very  large  and  imposing  funeral,  and  Mrs. 
Abbott,  in  trailing  crapes  and  sables,  looks  pale  but 
composed,  and  handsomer  than  ever.  Leo's  tears, 
people   note,  are  the  only  tears  that  fall.     There  hag 


\\ 


t 


w 


2fi6 


AFTET?   THAT   NTOTTT. 


J; 


been  an  inqnoat,  but  no  c.uise,  except  that  useful  and 
well-worn  one — temporary  aberration  of  mind — can  be 
a.S8i<::ne(l  for  the  rash  deed. 

J5usiness  h;is  summoned  Geoffrey  Lamar  to  the  city 
on  the  day  before,  and  among  the  melancholy  cortege 
he  is  conN|)icuous  by  his  absence.  All  the  Ventnors  are 
down  to  console  the  widow  and  orphan.  But  Mrs. 
Abbott's  high-bred  calm  stands  her  in  as  good  stead 
now,  as  in  all  the  other  emergencies  of  life — consola- 
tory j)latitudes  would  simply  be  impertinences  here, 
As  yet  she  knows  nothing,  only — that  she  is  free  ! 
After  a  very  dreadful  and  disgraceful  manner  truly, 
but  still — free. 

They  bury  the  dead  man,  and  his  will  is  read.  The 
widow  is  superbly  dowered,  her  son  inherits  Abbott 
Wood  and  half  tho  great  fortune  the  millionaire  has 
left.  Servants  and  friends  are  handsomely  remembered. 
No  fairer  or  njorc  generous  will  was  ever  made. 

Peophi  begin  to  find  out  his  good  points  ;  he  was 
rouah-and-ready,  certainly,  says  Brightbrook,  but  an 
off-hand,  whole-souled  fellow,  free  \vith  his  money  al- 
ways, and  if  he  swore  at  a  "help  "this  moment,  he 
was  just  as  ready  to  tip  him  a  dollar  the  next.  He 
wasn't  such  a  bad  sort  of  man.  Brightbrook  owes 
him  everything — he  has  made  the  place,  built  churches, 
schools,  town  halls,  jails,  almshouses,  laid  out  the  park, 
donated  the  fountain,  erected  model  cottages  for  his 
tenants,  was  a  capital  landlord,  if  he  was  a  little  Ptrict. 
So,  in  spite  of  the  suicide,  he  is  after  a  manner  canon- 
ized in  the  village. 

As  to  tiie  death  itself — people  rather  shirk  that— • 
be  did  not  live  happily  with  his  wife — she  and  her  son 
looked  down   upon   him  from  first  to  last.     And  be 


AFTER  THAT   NIGHT. 


267 


drank  to  excess.  And  he  had  liad  D.  T.,  and  in  one 
of  theso  fits  the  deed  was  dune,  and  that  was  all 
about  it. 

The  day  after  the  funeral  Geoffrey  Lamar  returns. 
lie  wears  no  mourning,  and  settled  sternness  and 
gloom  rest  on  his  face.  The  first  inquiries  he  makes 
are  for  the  Sleafords,  and  he  learns  the  Sleafords  are 
gone,  driven  away,  the  farm  deserted,  the  house  empty. 
Lora  has  married  a  love-stricken  butcher,  and  gone  to 
live  in  the  next  town  ;  Liz  has  drifted  away  to  the  city, 
the  boys  have  disappeared,  loneliness  reigns  at  Slea- 
ford's. 

The  Red  Farm  is  for  rent,  Geoffrey  rides  over  and 
looks  at  it — already  it  has  the  air  of  a  deserte*!  house, 
already  desolation  has  settled  upon  it,  already  the 
timid  avoid  it  after  nightfall,  already  it  is  hinted  Slea- 
ford  "  walks." 

It  is  very  strange  that  these  tM'o  men,  connected  in 
some  way  in  their  life-time,  should  so  quickly  and  aw- 
fullv  follow  each  other  to  a  violent  death. 

"They  were  ugly  in  their  lives,"  says  a  ghastly  wit 
of  the  village,  "and  in  death  they  are  not  divided." 

No  news  of  Joanna  as  yet,  and  of  late  the  search 
has  rather  been  given  up.  George  Blake,  poor  faith- 
ful, foolish  fellow,  still  mourns  and  searches,  Geoffrey 
propoLies  soon  to  recommence,  but  he  has  another  and 
sadder  duty  first  to  fulfill.  lie  has  yet  to  tell  his 
mother  the  frightful  truth,  that  she  has  never  for  one 
hour  been  John  Abbott's  wife — that  Leo  is  "nobody's 
cliiM,"  that  neither  he  nor  one  of  them  have  any 
shadow  of  rightful  claim  on  all  this  bwundless  wealth 
the  drad  man  has  left. 

As  the  night  falls  of  that  day,  that  day  never  to 


i. 


,  i. 


i'lj 

11 


I 


«j 


m 


r: 


258 


AFTf:R  THAT   NIGHT. 


be  fors^otten  in  tljoir  lives,  he  tolls  her.  Thoy  sit  alone 
in  her  darkening  sitting-room,  with  closed  doors,  look- 
ing out  at  the  lallijig  winter  night,  the  red  gleam  of 
the  tii'c  rtickering  in  the  snow,  and  gold,  and  amber  of 
the  bijou  room. 

Infinitely  gentle,  infinitely  tender  are  his  w^ords  ; 
he  holds  her  hands,  he  breaks  it  to  her,  this  revelation 
that  is  to  drag  her  pride  in  the  very  dust.  For  a  long 
time  it  is  impossible  to  make  her  comprehend,  the  hor- 
ror is  too  utter — she  cannot,  she  will  not  take  it  in. 

Tlien  suddenly  a  shriek  rings  through  the  house, 
another  and  another,  and  she  starts  up  like  a  woman 
gone  mad — she  breaks  from  him,  she  beats  the  air  with 
her  hands,  her  fren/ied  cries  re-^ound.  F"<r  the  mo- 
ment she  is  mad.  What  was  John  Abbott's  suicide,  a 
hecatomb  of  suicides,  to  such  liorror  as  this  !  Then 
she  sways  and  falls — almost  for  the  first  time  in  her 
son's  knowledge  of  her — headlong  in  a  dea  1  faint. 

After  that,  there  are  weeks,  that  in  all  the  future 
time  are  blank. 

She  lies  very  ill,  ill  unto  death,  frantic,  delirious, 
burning  with  fever,  talking  rapidly,  wildly,  incoherent- 
ly ;  shrieking  out  at  times  that  she  will  not  believe  it, 
that  she  cannot  believe  it,  that  John  Abbott,  with  that 
pistol  hole  in  his  head,  is  pursuing  her,  and  that  Geof- 
frey is  holding  her  until  he  comes  up. 

Her  ravings  are  continuous,  are  frightful  Nig^ht 
and  day  her  son  is  beside  her  ;  Leo  is  kept  out  of  the 
room  by  force — it  is  too  shocking  for  her  to  see  or 
liear.  Every  one,  doctors  included,  think  she  will  die  p 
but  her  superb,   unbroken  health  hitherto  sav«is  bef 

I  now. 

Siowly  the  fever  subsides,  slowly  life  and  reasoD 


life 


I 


AFTER  THAT  NIGHT. 


269 


come  back,  and  pale,  spent,  weak  as  a  babe,  white  as 
a  snow  spirit,  she  looks  out  one  May  day,  and  sees  the 
green  young  world,  the  jubilant  sunshine,  the  sweet 
spring  flowers  once  more. 

In  two  or  three  weeks  she  is  to  be  taken  away — for 
her  health.  Abbott  Wood  is  to  be  left  in  charge  of 
Mrs.  Ilill  and  one  or  two  of  the  servants.  Mrs.  Ab- 
bott, her  son,  and  daughter  may  be  absent  for  years. 
After  all,  says  Hrightbrook,  that  cold,  proud  woman 
must  have  cared  a  little  for  her  plebeian  husband  to  be 
stricken  with  fever  in  this  way  by  the  shock  of  his 
death.  And  Brightbrook  has  thought  her  especially 
cold  and  heartless  at  the  funeral.  So  easy  it  is  to  be 
mistaken. 

Early  in  June  they  depart.  Nothing  is  said  to  Leo 
— time  enough  to  tell  her  later,  and  then  only  part  of 
the  miserable  whole.  She  must  learn  that  they  are 
poor,  of  course,  that  another  claimant  with  a  better 
right  exists  for  Abbott  Wood,  that  they  must  look  to 
Geoffrey  and  his  profession  now  for  their  support. 

For  it  is  needless  to  say  that  neither  mother  nor 
son  can  touch  one  petmy  of  that  man's  money — the 
money  that  is  rightfully  Joanna's.  They  are  not  going 
abroad  to  travel,  as  all  the  world  thinks  ;  the}'  are 
going  to  a  little  house  in  one  of  the  suburbs  of  New 
York  for  the  present,  while  Geoffrey  begins  his  new 
life  of  hard  labor,  heavily  handicapped  in  the  race. 

For  obvious  reasons  his  mother  retains  the  name  of 
Abbott,  loathsome  to  her  ears,  but  Leo  must  be  con- 
fiidered  first  now.  No  one — not  even  the  Ventnors — 
are  to  know  of  them  or  t'leir  plans  ;  t/iat  woild  and 
all  in  it  has  gone  forever  ;  nothing  but  poverty,  seclu- 
sion,  anguieb,  shame  remains. 


i 


1 

r 

!;■    ■ 

'l 

!     f 


J'H 


«  ] 


(   I. 


|| 


-il 


mm 


260 


AFTER  THAT  NIGIIT. 


;  1 


For  the  Ventnors — 0!ga  finds  it  very  lonely,  that 
vacation  at  the  pretty  rose-draped  villa,  and  mourns 
disconsolately  for  her  friends.  She  is  i;  ?arly  seven- 
teen now — "a  fair  girl  graduate,  with  golden  hair," 
glad  that  the  thralldom  of  her  fashionable  school  is 
over.  But  this  fall  and  winter  she  is  to  go  on,  under 
the  best  masters,  with  music,  painting,  and  languages  ; 
live  very  quietly  at  Brightbrook,  and  early  in  April  start 
with  papa  and  mamma  for  that  two  years'  European  trip. 

Some  Amei'ican  heiresses  have  lately  been  marrying 
brilliantly  abroad — marrying  both  fortune  and  title — 
and  every  day  Frank  Livingston's  chances  grow  fewer 
and  farther  between.  His  mamma's  angnisli  breaks 
out  whenever  she  thinks  of  it.  She  writes  him  agonized 
appeals  to  meet  the  Ventnors,  and  try,  try,  try  with 
Olga,  before  one  of  those  all-fascinating  British  officers 
and  nobles  carry  off  the  prize.  But  Frank,  smoking, 
sight-seeing,  church-visiting  in  Rome,  seeing  statuary, 
and  paintings,  and  frescoes,  a  great  deal,  going  to 
cozy  little  artist  reunions,  sketching  and  painting 
after  a  desultory  fashion,  and  having  a  good  time, 
does  not  concern  himself  very  greatly  about  his  fair, 
far-oflf  cousin.  Art  is  his  mistress  at  present,  storied 
Rome  the  idol  of  his  heart,  his  big  brown  meerschaum 
rather  more  to  him  than  all  the  heiresses  and  beauties 
in  wide  America.  If  Olga  has  a  mind,  and  is  pleased 
to  approve  of  him  when  next  they  meet,  he  has  no 
objection.  If  not — he  shrugs  his  shoulders,  and  hums 
that  couplet  that  has  consoled  so  many  when  the 
grapes  were  sour  and  hung  beyond  reach, 

"  If  she  be  not  fair  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  fair  she  be  1" 


I 


AFTER  THE  STORY  ENDED. 


261 


And  now  this  record  has  come  back  to  the  begin- 
niuf}^ — to  tliat  wet  October  evening  when  Miss  Vent- 
nor  drove  past  the  Red  Farm  in  the  pony  carriage, 
and  pointed  it  out  to  her  friend.  Giles  Sleafonl  is 
dead,  Lora  is  married,  Liz  has  gone  cityward,  the 
"boys"  have  disappeared,  Joanna  has  run  away  with 
George  Blake,  and  is  not  to  be  found.  Sleaford's  is  a 
"  haunted  house."  At  Abbott  Wood  silence  and  lone- 
liness reign.  It,  too,  is  a  deserted  mansion.  Its  mas- 
ter has  died  a  tragic  death,  Mrs.  Abbott,  Leo,  Geoffrey, 
are  abroad,  traveling  for  health  and  forgetfulness. 
At  Ventnor  Villa  Olga  practices,  sings,  paints,  reads 
French,  German,  Italian,  rides,  drives,  blooms  a  rose  of 
the  world, 

*'Fair  as  a  star,  when  only  one 
Is  shiniog  in  the  sky." 

And  so,  with  sweet,  slow  voice,  she  tells  her  friend,  in 
brief,  this  wet  October  night,  the  story  of  the 
Sleafords. 


PART  THIRD. 
CHAPTER  I. 

AFTER  THE  STORY  ENDED. 

ND  now,  my  dearest  Hilda,  having  nar- 
rated all  the  incidents  of  the  voyage,  I 
propose  to  answer  your  very  artful  ques- 
tion about  a  certain  person.  Well,  yes, 
le  beau  cousin,  as  you  term  poor  Fran^,  is  still  here, 
Btill  boyering  as  the  moth  around  the  flame,  to  quote 


w 

w 

■'i ' 

I 

-L 

if 

'i 

n 

m 

ni 


^::| 


^iil 


I 


F 


:  ! 


■?l 


rij 


^"  m 


262 


AFTER  THE  STORY  ENDED. 


i  I 


! 


your  rather  hackneyed  simile.  He  followed  us  down 
here  from  New  York,  a  week  ago,  and  is  poor  mamma's 
cavalier  servant,  and  to  me,  the  most  devoted  of 
friends  and  cousins.  Friends  and  cousins,  I  repeat. 
You  need  not  smile — he  will  never  be  more.  All  that 
you  say  of  his  good  looks,  and  charming  manners,  and 
sunny  temper,  I  admit.  Still  looks,  and  manners  and 
temper,  are  not  all  that  one  requires  in  a  husband. 
You  perceive  I  put  your  delicately-vailed  hints  into 
plain  English.  I  am  not  a  sentimental  person.  I  read 
my  Tennyson,  and  my  novels,  and  dimly,  and  as  in  a 
dream,  I  realize  what  it  is  all  about — this  grand  pas- 
sion writers  make  the  burden  of  their  song.  But  I 
have  never  felt  it,  and  for  Frank  Livingston  I  never 
will.     I  like  him  too  well  ever  to  love  him.     And  yet, 

my  Hilda,  I  have  my  ideal " 

The  pencil — she  had  written  this  with  a  slender 
golden  trinket,  suspended  from  her  chatelaine — pauses 
here,  and  the  writer  looks  out  before  her  with  dreamy 
azure,  half-smiling  eyes.  She  sits  on  the  low  sea  wall 
of  Abbott  Wood,  her  sketch-book  on  her  lap,  and 
scribbles,  on  thin  foreign  paper,  this  letter.  The  sea 
lies  below  her,  dimpling  and  sparkling  in  the  lovely 
light  of  a  June  afternoon.  A  great  willow  bending 
over  the  wall  droops  its  feathery  plumes  nearly  to  her 
fair  head.  Her  hat  i.,  on  the  grass  beside  her,  she 
has  been  sketching,  but  nothing  in  the  view  is  love- 
lier than  herself.  She  sits  here,  a  tall,  slender,  most 
graceful  figure,  dressed  in  light  muslin,  her  pale  golden 
hair  plaited  about  her  head.  There  is  not  a  t.ouch  of 
brown  in  the  perfect  tinting  of  that  pale  gold,  and 
her  eyebrows  and  lashes  are  fairer  than  her  hair.  Hei 
eyes  are  really  wonderful  in  their  limpid  sapphire  blue 


AFTER  THE  STORY   ENDED. 


263 


Her  complexion  is  colorless,  but  has  the  \i\ii\  warmth 
of  first  youth  arul  perfect  health.  A  little  gold  cross 
clasps  some  creamy  white  lace  at  the  throat,  a  white 
cashmere  wrap,  embroidered  in  gold,  lies  with  her  hat. 
As  she  sits  there,  she  is  a  vision  of  radiant  youth  and 
dazzling  blonde  beauty. 

She  sits  for  a  little,  watching  with  that  misty,  far- 
off  look  the  tiny  waves,  slipping  up  and  down  the  white 
sands,  then  she  takes  up  her  pencil  Jind  resumes. 

"  I  have  my  ideal,  and  he  is  not  in  the  least  like 
Frank.  13eauty  shall  by  no  means  be  an  essential,  nor 
a  perfectly  cloudless  temper  either — we  might  weary 
of  perpetual  sweetness  and  sunshine.  But,  oh  !  my 
Hilda,  he  shall  be  noble,  he  shall  be  capable  of  self- 
sacrifice,  he  shall  be  a  king  among  men  to  me.  He 
shall  be  above  me  in  all  ways " 

A  second  time  she  breaks  off,  this  time  she 
crumples  up  the  flimsy  sheet  of  perfumed  French 
paper,  and  thrusts  it  into  her  pocket.  For  a  step 
comes  quickly  down  the  path  behind  her,  and  a  man's 
voice  sings,  as  he  comes,  with  mellow  sweetness,  "  La 
Donna  e  mobile."  She  glances  round,  half  petulantly, 
as  he  draws  near. 

"  You  are  like  a  shadow,"  she  says,  in  a  tone  that 
suits  the  glance  ;  "like  a  detective  on  the  trail.  How 
did  you  know  I  was  here  ?" 

"  Don't  be  cross,  Olga,"  says  Frank  Livingston, 
throwing  himself  on  the  grass  beside  her.  "  How  can 
I  tell  ?  Some  spirit  in  my  feet — how  is  it  Shelley 
goes  ? — led  me  to  the  charmed  spot.  What  are  you 
doing — sketching  ?" 

"  I  came  with  that  design,  but  I  believe,  unlikely 
as  it  may  sound — I  have  been  thinking." 


I 


f ' 


r  }. 


t 


: 


!f 


t   ! 


264 


AFTER  THE  STOKY  ENDED. 


"  Ah  !  dare  I  liope- 


»» 


((' 


No,  Frank,  it  was  not  of  you,  so  do  not  put  on 
that  complacent  look.  Did  mamma  tell  you  to  bring 
me  homo?" 

"Your  mamma  is  asleep,  my  dearest  Olga,  and  does 
not  need  you  in  the  least.  Do  you  know,  I  find  it 
difficult  to  realize  after  all  our  wanderings  that  we  are 
home  once  more.  And  here  I  This  place  seems 
haunted.  The  last  time  I  was  here  was  with  Geoffrey 
Lamar." 

lie  takes  off  his  hat,  and  the  soft  sea  wind  stirs 
his  dark  curly  hair.  It  is  a  new  Frank  Livingston, 
bronzed,  bearded,  mustached,  muscular,  improved 
almost  out  of  knowledge  by  years,  and  travel  and 
cultured  association.  He  looks  handsome  as  a  latter- 
day  Adonis,  in  his  gray  tweed  suit,  and  with  a  dash 
of  his  old  Bohemian  insouciance  upon  him  still. 
Lying  here,  with  the  flickering  sunshine  sifting  through 
willow  plumes  on  his  upturned  face  and  uncovered 
head,  he  is  wonderfully  good  to  look  at,  and  the  half 
smile  comes  back  into  Olga  Ventnor's  eyes  as  they  rest 
on  him. 

"You  look  like  a  picture  as  you  lie  there,  Frank," 
she  says,  in  an  amused  tone.  "  Do  not  stir,  please — I 
want  to  sk3tch  you.  You  are  a  thing  of  beauty  and  a 
joy  forever,  when  you  fall  into  picturesque  attitudes, 
and  hold  your  tongue.  You  spoil  everything  when 
you  open  your  mouth.  You  ought  to  go  through  life 
posing,  and  never  destroy  the  illusion  by  speaking  a 
word.  I  shall  send  this  to  Hilda  Stafford  in  my  next 
letter.  Do  you  know,  Frank,  she  admires  you  im- 
mensely ?^' 

"  Lady  Hilda  doei  me  much  honor,"  says  Living- 


, 


AFTER  THE   STOKV    ENDED. 


2C5 


Rton,  composcrllj' 


« 


^)^,  too,  mv  do.ir  cousin,  with 


your  more  than   donbtlUl  coinplinieiils.     The  rolo  of 
barluT's  Idock  which  you  so  kiiuliy  assiu^n  me " 


"Turn  a  hair-hreadth  this  way,"  interrupts  Miss 
Ventnor,  "  and  please  be  silent.  I  never  can  sketch 
and  talk.  I  will  iiave  vou  in  black  and  wiiite  in  a 
second,  and  I  know  La<ly  Ilild^i   will   wear  you  next 


M 


her  heart, 

Livinji^ston  laughs,  but  with  a  vexed  look,  and 
obeys.  His  blue  eyes,  very  like  Olga's  own,  rest  on 
the  h)vely  face  above  him,  with  a  look  Olga  Ventnor 
has  seen  in  the  eyes  of  many  men  before  to-day,  and 
which  certainly,  in  the  present  case,  stirs  her  j)ulses 
no  more  than  if  Frank  were  her  pet  Spitz  dog.  It  is 
a  face  that  can  be  very  mutinous  and  imperious,  as 
ho  knows  to  his  cost,  a  face  that  can  be  as  exasperat- 
ing as  it  is  alluring,  and  that  is  saying  much.  Some- 
thing akin  to  irritated  impatience  and  pain  stirs  within 
him  as  he  looks. 


"As  you  sit  wliere  lusters  strike  you, 
Sure  to  please, 
Do  we  love  you  most,  or  like  you, 
Belle  JNlurquise  ? " 

he  quotes,  under  his  breath. 

"  I  told  you  not  to  talk  ! "  says  Olga,  austerely  ; 
"but  a  talker  you  are  or  nothing,  my  poor  Frank. 
There  !  I  think  that  will  do.  How  Hilda  will  thank 
me  in  her  seoiret  soul  for  this  treasure  !  " 

A  saucy  smile  dimples  the  perfect  mouth,  the  sap- 
phire eyes  glance  down  laughingly  at  the  figure  on  the 
grass.  But  Frank,  still  gazing,  is  absorbed  in  his 
poem. 

12 


it 


! '     I 


i ; 


(    ^ 
i 


2G0 


A  FT  r  11   TirK   STORY    EXDED. 


**  You  li!i(l  every  ijn'are  in  heiivon, 
III  your  lUMsi  aiiiirlic  I'jK.'e, 
Witli  tlio  iiiuuclcss  tiller  Iciiven, 

Lent  of  Itloud  .iiul  coiirlly  race  ; 
And  was  udded  loo.  in  duty, 
Ninon's  wif,  aiid  [loulller's  beauty, 
And  I.ii  Valliere's  '  >V //.<■  CtdoHtnH' 

Foliowoil  these. 
And  you  lilted  it  when  tliey  said  it 

On  their  knees, 
And  you  ivcpt  it,  :ind  you  read  it, 
litilu  Man]ui.st'  •  " 


! 


li  ! 


"  Tlio  words  must  liave  bcon  written  for  you,  I 
tliink — you  tit  the  portrait — luir,  hoartlcss,  icy — ad- 
miiMl)ly  wt'Il.  I  wonder  if  yiui  Iiaiie  a  heart,  like*  other 
])C'()j)U;,  most  beautiful  Ol^a,  or  if,  as  in  the  case  of  the 
Manjuise,  tlj.it  itjoonvenieiit  essential  was  left  out?" 

"  I  think  I  have  <^ot  your  exaet  expression,  or, 
rather,  laek  of  it,"  goes  on  Miss  Veiitnor,  very  busy 
with  her  work,  and  evidently  (piilo  deaf.  "This 
sketch  is  worthy  of  being  immortalized  in  oils  and 
forwarded  to  the  autumn  Exhibition.  What  were  you 
saying  a  moment  ago?  Something  uncivil,  I  think, 
froTU  the  sound.  l»ut  you  generally  arc  uncivil,  and 
unj)leasantly  personal  in  your  remarks,  I  grieve  to  ob- 
serve, when  you  do  me  the  honor  to  address  mo. 
Nothing  in  the  world,  my  dear  Frank,  is  in  worse  form 
than  vituperation,  and  it  pains  me  to  observe  that  you 
are  falling  sadly  into  the  habit.  And  poetical  vituj^er- 
ation  is  worst  of  all.  You  will  excuse  my  mentioning 
this.  The  cousinly — I  may  almost  say  the  maternal 
— interest  I  take  in  you  must  plead  the  pardon  of 
rebuke." 

Livingston  laughs  again,  and  takes  up  the  sketch- 
book, but  the  sting  of  her  indifference  rankles.     It  id 


I«! 


AFTKIi  THK   STOKY    KN'DKD. 


2G7 


las 


k)\\ 


U, 


IHK 


nil  (I 
ob- 
mo. 
rm 

'Oil 


pel 
nin 


(t 


rn:u 


of 


!tch- 
llt  itJ 


so  rcfil,  the  p.uiuf  is  in  (li.it.     She  is  iiidiUVrcnt  to  ;ill 


iiicii,  >lu>  is  iiKM'i.;  (Ii.'iii  itulilFt'i'ciit  to  liii 


II. 


In  1 


UT 


t'luity,  hor  |tritl<',  her  ljimi-c,  and  Ikt  power, 


1  1. 


Hlie    is   like   somt!    yomig    qiu'en,    lookiii;^    with    blue 
HcoMifiil  eves  upon  her  adorers  and  slaves. 


As  he  tuifis  the  leaves  (d'  the  sketcdidiook  lio  sud- 
denly slops,  a  look  of  siirprisi',  of  pleasure,  of  rceoi^ni- 
tioii  Hashes  from  his  eves,  A  touch  of  eM<'i'r  color  eoine.s 
into  his  face  ;  lie  takes  out  a  lilllo  time  yellowed, 
faded,  pt'iicil-di-awiiii^  fioin  between  the  leav«'s. 

"  Voii  remember  it?"  OlLja  says,  cahidy.  "  Vou 
did  that.  What  (centuries  aufo  it  seems,  and  I  have 
kepi  it  all  this  time.  I  wonder  wliy  ?  It  has  no  in- 
trinsic value,  and  certainly  it  could  not  liave  been  (or 
sake  of  the  artist.  No,  Frank,  you  need  not  put  on 
that  pathetic  look — I  assure  you  it  was  not  for  the 
sake  of  the  artist.  What  a  dowdv  little  thiriLT  I  look, 
and  what  a  wistful  exj»ression  you  jiave  given  me. 
Did  I  really  look  like  that,  at  ten  years  old  V  " 

For  faded,  yellowed,  dim,  it  is  the  pencil-sketch 
made  by  Frank  fully  eleven  years  :\'^o. 

"'  Princess  Ohjfa,  with  the  love  of  the  most  loval  of 
her  lieges,'"  ho  reads  at  the  bottom,  "  even  then,  eleven 
years  ago,  I  was  in  love  with  you,  Princess  (J'ga." 

"  You  were  in  love  with  Lora  Sleaford,"  returns 
Miss  Ventnor,  composedly,  "  with  her  ttame-red  cheeks 
and  tar-blaek  hair.  You  always  were  a  person  of 
atrocious  taste,  I  regret  to  remember.  You  were  a 
sliocking  boy  in.  those  days.  You  used  to  stay  out  until 
the  small  hotirs,  playing  cards,  singing  songs,  and 
waking  love  at  Sleaford's." 

"  And  you  used  to  lie  awake  and  watch   for  mu — I 


m\ 


11 


,  I ' 


268 


AFTKi:    11  IK  STOKY   ENDED.  ' 


nMiH'tnlicr  that,  Tli<'  Prlnooss  Oli^'ii  of  tlioso  days  must 
have  lu'L'ii  liilluT  fond  of  mc,  I  tliink." 

"  Vi'i'v  likely.  I  used  to  be  a  dreadful  little  idiot, 
M  I  recall  myself  rifijliil}'.  That  picture  is  associated 
in  my  iniiid  with  my  i^ellin;^  lost  in  the  woods,  and 
that  wild  creature  Joaiina  ^oin^  to  tear  out  my  hair, 
and  all  the  misery  and  illness  that  followed.  I  wanted 
you  to  take  me  to  play  crofjiiet  with  Leo  Abbott  that 
afternoon,  I  reni<'!nl)er  distinctly.  I  also  renjember 
distinctly  you  would  not." 

Ilis  eyes  are  upon  her — trouble,  longinjjj,  implorinj» 
in  their  pleadiuLj.     J>ut  she  is  not  incline<l  to  spare  him. 

"  You  wouhl  not,"  she  re])eats,  a  somewhat  hard 
inflection  in  her  voice.  "You  M'erc  Lora  Sleaford's 
biver  in  those  days.  Y'ou  wanted  to  go  to  her,  no 
doubt.  You  broke  your  ])romise  to  me.  You  left  me, 
whistling  a  ttnu^,  that  sketch  of  myself  to  comfort  mo, 
and  a  childish  ache  and  loneliness  that  I  do  not  forget 
to  this  day.  You  are  right,  Cousin  Frank,  I  must  have 
been  fond  of  you  then.  I  wonder  what  absence  of 
yonrs  could  give  me  a  heart-ache  now  ?" 

A  triumphant  smile  lights  lier  face,  an  exidtant 
sense  that  it  is  in  no  man's  power  to  touch,  or  move, 
or  hurt  her. 

"  None,  I  am  quite  sure,  though  it  were  the  ab- 
sence from  which  there  is  no  return,"  he  answers, 
coldly. 

"  I  wandered  away,"  she  goes  on,  retrospectively, 
"and  lost  myself  in  the  woods,  and  you — how  little 
you  cared  !  Ah  !  well — all  that  is  a  decade  of  years 
ago,  and  Lora  Sleaford  is  the  butcher's  lady  over  there, 
^,  with  a  waist  two  yards  round,  and  no  end  of  little 
butchers  growing  up  about  her.     I  saw  her  yesterday, 


\i^ 


-A FT K 11   TIIK    STOIIY    KXDKI). 


201) 


Frank,  ill  tlu'  midst  <tf  Ikt  jewels,  .'ukI  tli(>ii;:;l/t  of  your 
first  lovo,  iind  tlio  ijaujo  business,  iu\d  liiu.t'hed  to  my- 
self. No  ))eony,  no  picrUlod  ciibbai^e  Wiis  ever  so  ixlar- 
iii^^ly  purple  as  her  uliueks,  Wliut  u  luisiaku  lir.sL  love 
is,  to  be  Muro  !" 

"  Or  last  love,  or  any  love,  in  your  eyes." 

"  Or  any  love — we  are  so  fatally  in  the  power  of 
those  we  love.  They  can  so  wring  our  hearts  ;  their 
going  is  such  misery,  theii  loss  such  despair.  You  see, 
heartless  iis  I  am,  I  can  imagiin-  ail   that." 

"  Having  seen  a  great  deal  of  it,  having  caused 
wholesale  slaughter  wherever  you  went.  Only  you 
took  care  your  knowledge  should  be  from  observation 
— never  from  experience," 

"Never  from  experience.  You  sound  sarcastic, 
Fratdi,  but  it  is  very  true,  nevertheless.  As  to  caus- 
ing n — your  great  gallantry  cotnpels  you  to  say  so,  nc 
doubt.  l*oor  little  yellow  pencil  sketch  !  Put  it  back. 
It  is  the  only  souvenir  of  my  childhood,  and  of — you 
— I  posses  .     Let  me  cherish  it  still." 

He  does  as  ho  is  told — people  do  obey  her  as  a 
general  thing — she  is  m«>re  than  a  trille  imperious  even 
in  trifles,  this  queenly  Olga,  an«l  Livingston  is  not  in- 
cline<l  lo  rebel.  He  is  conscious  of  irritating  |)iquo 
always,  when  with  her ;  her  words  wound  an<l  vex  him. 

She  is  a  merciless  mistress — it  is  (pieslionable  if  any 
lover  of  hers  has  ever  been  a  hajipy  man,  even  in  the 
first  fleeting  hour  of  his  fool's  paradise — most  certain 
is  he  to  be  sui)remely  miserable  a  little  farther  on. 

He  turns  the  leaves  of  the  book  mechanically,  but 
Jie  hardly  se<'s  the  sketches,  full  of  vigoi'ous  life  as 
they  are.  Olga  is  almost  as  skilled  an  artist  as  iiim- 
Belf. 


1  <   I 


( , 


^ 


I- 

1 

( 

i 

■ 

■■■/I 

« 

C  ; 

^' 

>' 

i^ 

I 

i  ii 

• 


270 


AFTKIl   TIIK   STOllY    ENDED. 


t'".. 


:  iifl 


'■ :    f 


"  Look  there  !"  slic  says,  lay'mor  Jkm-  fiiiujor  on  a  page^ 
"docs  that  I'osc'inhlc  any  one  you  know?" 

It  is  a  yoiiiii;  man  in  the  dress  of  a  monk,  standing 
in  a  striking  attitude,  his  handsonu?  head  thrown  hnc  k, 
one  hand  slia<ling  liis  eyes.  Ili^  cowl  has  fallen  on  liis 
shoulders,  his  left  hand  rests  on  the  head  of  a  hugo 
dog. 

Dotli  stand  listen'.ng  intently.  It  is  in  water-colors 
— a  steel  gray  sky  is  above  ;  around,  nothing  but  snow 
— a  white,  frozen  world. 

Livingsto.:  looks,  and  is  conscious,  in  some  queer 
way,  that  the  face  of  the  monk  is  like  his  own. 

"It  is  a  monk  and  a  dog  of  the  Hospice  of  the 
Great  St.  i>eniard,"  says  Olga.  "I  saw  him  one  (even- 
ing fi'om  my  bedroom  window,  listening  ami  looking 
like  ticit  Do  you  not  see  the  likeness,  Frank  ?  He 
is  yoisi"  image,  iieight,  features,  comj)lexion,  oidy  he 
was  more  distinguished  than  you,  and  had  much  more 
courtly  manners,  lie  looked  as  if  lie  might  have  been 
a  young  Austrian  prince,  come  there  to  renounce  the 
A'orld,  and  live  for  God  and  his  fellow-men.  I  was 
very  mucl)  im])i"essed — I  know  he  must  have  been  of 
noble  blood — he  had  the  manners  and  bow  of  a  court 
chamberlain.  And  sitting  there, that  cold,  bleak,  gray 
evening,  I  sketched  my  handsome  young  monk  and  Jiis 
dog.  IIow  grave  he  looks — as  if  the  old  life  of  courts 
and  kings  were  a  dream — the  shadow  of  a  dream  with 
a  touch  of  loneliness  in  the  profound  })eace.  And  I 
thought  of  1/ou,  Frank,  and  imagined  you  in  cowl  and 
robe,  and  with  that  look  in   your  eyes 


she  breaks 


off  with  a  laugh,  this  malicious  coquette,  as  Living- 
ston looks  up,  certainly  with  a  very  different  expres* 
sion  from  that  in  the  peaceful,  pictured  face. 


AFTER  THE    STOKY    EM)P:D.  271 

*   '  T  envy  thoiii,  tli^^sf  monks  of  old. 

I'lioir  l)()C)ks  tli(  ;.   read,  tluir  Ix'ads  tlicy  told, 
To  liutnaii  \vcakiK"^>!  dead  uod  tJold, 
And  all  life's  viinity.' 


fH 


If 

If 


f 


Tliore  is  somftliino;  <]^raii(l  in  the  i4oa,  is  there  not?  to 
rtMioiince  all  that  life  holds  of  hritrhl*'!*!  sunA  sweetest, 
at  that  ajj:e,  and  for  that  reason?  Tiwh   a<iother  I<\af." 

"  1  am  tired  of  skotclics,"  he  says,  iinpati^'ntly,  but 
turns  as  he  says  it.  "'I'his  is  Geoffrey  Ljvmar  !"  ho 
exelaiuis. 

"  Draw. I  from  memory— yes,"  she  answers.  "Frank, 
wlicre  /.s'  (leolTrt'V  Lamar?" 

"  Heaven  knows  !  slaving  at  his  ])rofe>'-")n,  poor  fel- 
low, I  suppose,  to  suj)poi"t  ids  mother  and  ^.-<ter." 

"I  never  understf)o«l  that  matter  rii^litly,"  Oli^asays, 
*' except  tliat  Geoffrey  made  some  ij^reat  sacrilice  for 
honor's  sake,  and  renoancod  for  hiinself  ar.d  Leo  all 
Mr.  Ahhott's  wealth.     What  was  it  ahout?" 

"  Heaven  knows  anain.  I  supj)ose  Geoffrey  does; 
lie  is  the  sort  of  fellow  to  know  his  own  mind  pretty 
thoi'ouiijhly.  I  faney  the  money  was  illy  eome  by, 
pomo  one  had  a  Letter  claim  tlian  even  l^eo,  and  so 
Geoffrey  gavo  it  up.  Noble,  as  you  say,  but  a  trifle 
Quixotic,  for  the  missinsj^  heir,  wjioever  he  may  be,  it 
seems  eannot  be  found.  lint  if  the  heir  is  never  found 
it  will  make  no  difference  to  Lamar.  He  will  work 
like  a  tTJvlley-slave  until  the  day  of  his  death,  for  his 
mother  -md  sister,  but  he  will  n"ver  permit  them  to 
toueh  a  penny  of  dishonorably-gotten  gain.  There 
are  not  many  like  tliat," 

Olga  says  nothing,  but  a  sort  of  glow  comes  into 
her  face — a  look  tiiat  is  never  there  except  when  she 
listens  to  some  deed  heroic. 


i    ! 
i 


'   '  ■   f 

I 

!. 


n' ; 


272 


AFTEIi  THE   STOKY    ENDED. 


"  He  is  of  tlie  stnlT  tl);it  made  |i;ilii(lins  of  old,"  proos 
on  Livingston,  "with  uplifted  notions  on  every  Muhjcct 
under  the  sun — a  sort  of  Sir  Galahad,  you  know,  to 
ride  to  the  aid  of  damsels  in  distress.  Witness  his 
adoption  of  Sleaford's  Joanna.  By-the-bye,  I  wonder 
Mdiatever  has  become  of  Wild  Joanna.  I  must  step 
in  and  inquire  of  ^listress  Lora  one  of  these  days. 
Not  that  siie  is  likely  to  know." 

"When  did  you  see  Geoff— the  Abbotts,  last?" 
01  ga  inquires. 

"  I  saw  Geoff  in  New  York,  but  'we  met  by  el)anee 
the  usual  way.'  lie  does  not  live  there,  but  somewhere 
out  of  the  world,  wliere  he  is  woi'king  liiniself  to  skin 
and  bone,  judging  by  his  look.  'I'licy  have  sunk  the 
Abbott,  and  call  themselves  Lamar  now — the  old 
pride,  you  know.  1  do  not  see  much  sense  in  it  myself. 
They  might  at  least  use  the  property  until  the  missing 
heir  turns  up.  I  would  have  liked  to  go  and  see  Leo, 
but  Geoffrey's  manner  was  cold  and  discouraging. 
And   one  cannot  force  one's  self  whether  or  no,  vou 


:now 


?j 


I  do  not  know.  My  experience — of  you — is 
particularly  the  reverse,  but  I  suj)])ose  cousins  are 
always  an  exce|)tion.  As  you  are  iiere,  Frank,  you 
may  as  well  make  yourself  useful,  and  carry  ray  sketch- 
book home.     I  am  going." 

She  rises — a  lofty,  slender,  white  figure — picks 
up  her  cashmere  and  gold  wrap,  puts  on  her  pretty 
hat,  and  turns  to  go. 

"Come,  Frank  !"  slie  says,  arid  glances  back,  with 
one  of  those   brilliantly  sweet  smiles   that  are   as  fatal 


to  men  as  the  siren  son<jf  of  the  fabled  Lurle 


What 


is  Frank  that  he  shoidd  resist?     He  is  but  mortal,  and 


AFTKR   TIIK   COXCKUT. 


273 


the  spoil  of  llie  enc'liaiili'oss  is  upon  liiiii.  Is  he  in 
love  with  her?  roully  in  love?  He  ;i.sks  hiinsell'  thiit 
question  sometimes,  but  never  when  by  her  side.  Then 
the  glamour  of  the  white  witchery  is  upon  him,  :in<I 
he  lives  Init  to  do  her  bidding.  Coldness,  coquetry, 
are  forgotten  now;  he  ])icks  up  the  big  flat  book, 
throws  on  his  hat,  and  is  by  her  side.  And  he  thinks 
of  a  fitting  couplet — though  remembering  recent 
rebuke  h^j  does  not  quote  it: 

"  You  throw  off  your  friends,  like  a  buntsnmn  Iiis  pack, 
For  you  know  when  you  will  you  can  whistle  theui  back." 

All  the  way  to  Yentnor  Villa  Olga  is  very  silent 
and  thoughtful.  The  sun  is  setting  as  they  reach  it, 
and  she  lingej's  a  moment  to  look  at  its  rose  and 
gold  beauty.  i>ut  she  is  not  thinking  much  of  the 
sunset — not  at  all  of  the  young  cavalier  by  her  side. 

"Like    a    paladin    of    old,"    she    muses,    dreamily. 

'Yes,  it  is  true.      He  is  noble,  great,  good,  self-sacrili- 

clng.       I    wish — I    wish   I    could    see — Leo  Abbott — 


again. 


» 


i 


*•♦ 


CHAPTER  n. 


AFTER  THE  CONCERT. 

HE  lamps  are  lit  in  tlie  ])rctty  drawing-room 

of  the  villa.     Dinner  is  over,  and  the  one 

guest,  the   Reverend   Ignatius   Lamb,   sita 

near  ]\frs.  Ventnor's  sofa,  talking  earnestly. 

The  ex-rector  of  St.  Walburga's  is  the  incumbent  of  a 

beautiful  little  chuich  in  the  village  now,  not  so  rich 

or  rare  a  gem  cerlaiidy  as  fc>t.  Walburga's  in  the  days  of 

12* 


I- 1 
1 1 


274 


AFTl.ri   THE   CONCEPT. 


:^:l 


■4   >' 


Hi 


ill 


s: 


m 


IMrn.  Abbott — still,  an  extremely  pretty  struetiire, 
Gothic  as  to  style,  niedijyvjil  as  to  painted  saints  on 
giiklen  baek<ijroiui(ls,  aristocratic  as  to  congregation, 
and  all  that  there  is  of  the  most  ritu;jlistic,  as  to  doc- 
trine. 

Mrs.  Ventnor,  j)allid,  languid,  graceful,  reclining 
on  her  coucii,  listens  with  wcarv  interest.  She  has  a 
pew  at  St.  Chad's,  and  is  esjx'cially  anxious  al)out  the 
Bticcess  of  .Mr.  Lamb's  latest  project — that  of  founding 
a  convent  and  an  orphan  asylum,  on  a  grant  of  land 
recently  presented  to  the  church  by  C\)lonel  Ventnor. 
The  order  is  (piite  a  new  one,  the  Sistt-rs  of  the  Suffer- 
ing—  Mr.  Lamb  himself  the  fomider,  and  to  establish 
the  Mother  House  in  Brigiit brook,  with  an  asylum  and 
a  day-school,  is  a  pr<»ject  very  near  to  the  reverend 
gentleman's  heart. 

"I  saw  the  Reverend  IMother  last  week,"  he  is  say- 
ing  to  jNfrs.  Ventnor,  "and  it  was  slu;  who  proposed 
this  concert.  For  obvious  reasons,  it  is  more  conven- 
ient at  ])resent  than  either  a  picnic  or  fair.  ]\[otlier 
Bonaventure  knows  this  singer — this  Miss  Jenny  Wild 
— knew  her  before  she  entered  religion — you  under- 
stand, and  speaks  of  her  in  the  very  highest  tei'nis. 
Her  moral  character — 31iss  Wild's,  of  course — is  per- 
fectly unexcej)tionable.  And  she  is  more  than  willing 
to  assist  us  by  giving  a  concert  and  donating  the  pro- 
ceeds, Slie  is  said  to  excel  in  charities  indeed,  and  is 
especially  interested  in  or[)han  childi-en.  In  additioji  to 
lier  concert  she  promises  two  hundred  dollars.  All  this, 
with  the  noble  donation  of  your  excellent  husband,  my 
dear  madam,  will  enable  us  to  start  work  at  once,  without 
incurring  pecuniary  liabilities.  Everything  is  arranged, 
and  the  concert  takes  place  on  Monday  evening.     Miss 


I  li' 


AFTER   THE   COXCERT. 


275 


"Wild  is  at  prosoit  in  New  York,  but  will  reach 
Brio^htbrook  on  that  day.  May  I  hope,  my  dear  Airs. 
Ventnor,  that  you  will  endeavor  to  be  present?" 

"I  go  nowhere  of  late,"  Mrs.  Ventnor  responds, 
languidly,  "  as  you  are  aware.  IVIy  wretched  health, 
you  know — but  assuredly,  if  possible,  I  will  bo  present 
at  the  concert." 

"  And  Miss  Olga — we  may,  I  presume,  count  upon 
her  without  fail." 

The  door  opens  as  he  speaks,  and  the  Reverend 
Ignatius  pauses,  and  is  conscious  of  a  shock — not  an 
unpleasant  one.  lie  liolds  distinct  views  upon  the 
celibacy  of  the  clergy,  and  has  always  advocated  them, 
but  at  this  moment  he  feels  that  under  certain  in- 
fluences a  man  and  an  Anglican  priest  may  Ix;  untrue 
t«  the  convictions  of  his  life,  and  yet  be  excusable. 

She  comes  in,  tail,  slender,  white-robed,  her  lov(dy 
hair  falling  like  a  bath  of  sunshine  over  her  shoulders, 
lier  gold  and  snow  drapery  irailing  about  her,  a  faint 
flush  on  her  cheeks,  a  starry  light  in  the  blue,  blue 
eyes.  Behind  her  comes  her  faithful  sha<low,  Frank, 
and  the  Reverend  Ignatius  frowns  slightly,  and 
realizes  that  handsome  distant  cousins  are  a  most  dan- 
gerous and  objectionable  class  of  men, 

"My  dear,  how  late  you  are,"  mamma  murmms,  as 
Olga  stoops  and  kisses  her,  "  we  have  dined  without 
you.  Dr.  Gillson,  you  know,  is  most  peremptory  on 
the  point  of  my  always  dining  at  the  same  hour." 

"Pray  make  no  excuses,  mamma — it  does  not  ii.\at- 
ter  in  the  least,"  Olga  says,  gayly.  "  Fratik  and  I  will 
dine  tete-a-tete.  We  have  been  quarreling  all  the  after- 
noon, and  can  recojutnonce  over  our  soup.     Anything 


f   I 


IMF 
MM 


i      i 


i! 


276 


AFTER  THE  CONCERT. 


new  in  Brightbrook,  Mr.  Lamb  ?  What  of  the  now 
convent  ?" 

"  Olga  thinks  of  renouncinc;  this  wicked  world,  and 
going  in  for  ^lother  Abbess.  The  role  would  suit  her, 
I  think.  She  has  rather  the  look  at  this  moment  of  a 
vestal  virgin — a  Norma — a  Priestess  of  the  Sun.  That 
sort  of  people  never  cared  for  anybody  but  themselves, 
and  were  made  of  ice-water  more  or  less,  I  believe." 

"  jNIy  dear  Frank,  how  often  have  I  toKl  you  sar- 
casm is  not  your  strong  ])oint  ?  You  mean  to  be  cyni- 
cal, l)ut  in  reality  I  am  almost  sure  I  should  like  it. 
The  habit  of  the  Sisters  of  the  SulFering  is  in  admirable 
taste — a  trained  black  robe,  a  white  coif,  and  long 
black  vail  are  always  picturesque  aixl  l)ecoming. 
What  of  our  fair,  ]\rr.   Land) — or  is  it  to  be  a  ])icni(, '?" 

Mr.  Lamb  explains.  It  is  io  be  neither.  It  is  to 
be  a  concert — a  ballad  concert,  with  Miss  Jenny  Wild 
as  prima-donna,  and  Monday  next  is  the  appointed 
night. 

"Miss  Jeimy  AVild?  Jenny  Wild?  I  do  not 
know  that  name.  Who  is  she  ?  Do  you  know  her, 
Frank  ?" 

"Never  heard  her — heard  of  her  though.  Sings  in 
character — ballads  chiefly,  and  is  very  popular.  Good 
contralto  they  say,  but  seldom  comes  to  New  York. 
It  is  not  to  be  supposed  you  would  know  her.  Miss 
Ventnor — scam{)ering  over  the  face  of  the  earth  as  you 
have  been  for  the  past  five  years.  Come  to  dinner.  I 
do  not  know  how  it  may  be  with  you,  but  I  am  con- 
sumedly  hungry." 

They  go.  Frank  may  be  in  love  with  the  exquisite 
face  across  the  table,  but  that  fact  does  not  impair  his 
appetite  to  any  serious  extent.     If  it  exists,  it  is  per 


AFTKK   Til  10   CONX'KHT. 


277 


haps  a  love  of  the  oyes,  not  of  the  lioart,  for  lie  is  dis- 
tinctly conscious  of  being  niu(!h  inore  comfortable 
away  from  his  adored  one  than  with  her. 

Her  presi'iice,  her  triuini)hant  beauty,  have  upon 
him  the  effect  of  a  fever.  He  seeks  to  woo  and  win 
her,  and  he  feels  that  if  he  succeeds  he  will  be  in  a 
8tate  of  unrest  and  discomCort  all  the  rest  of  his  life. 
She  exacts  too  much,  her  ideal  is  too  high  ;  he  can 
never  reach  it  :  it  is  alwavs  uncomfortable  to  dwell  on 
the  heights.  Still,  the  family  expect  it  or  him,  and  to 
show  the  white  feather  in  love  or  in  war  is  not  the 
nature  of  a  Livingston.  In  an  oif-liand  sort  of  vvuy  ho 
lias  been  making  love  to  his  pretty  cousin  ever  since 
he  can  remember,  but  to  distincrt  proposal  he  has  never 
yet  come.  In  his  jiocket,  to-night,  a  letter  lies  from 
liis  mother,  urging,  entreating,  commanding  him  to 
speak  before  he  leaves  IJrightbrook.  IJusiness  calls 
him  away  on  Tuesdav  next,  and  the  Rubi(U)n  must  bo 
crossed  between  then  an<l  now.  He  is  not  a  nervous 
young  man  as  a  rule  ;  but,  truth  to  tell,  the  thought 
makes  his  heart  beat  a  little  quickly.  Perhaps  it  is 
not  to  his  discredit  that  he  is  a  trifle  afraid  of  this  regal 
OI<xa.  He  is  not  the  (irst  man  who  has  feared  this 
chill,  white  goddess.  This  is  Thursday  evening.  He 
has  still  one,  two,  three,  four  days  and  nights  to  s(!rew 
his  courage  to  the  sticking-place,  and  put  his  fate  to 
the  touch,  to  "  win  or  lose  it  all." 

"  I  will  speak  to-morrow,"  he  thinks,  looking  at  her 
across  the  cut  flowers  and  crystal.  "  Hang  it  all !  why 
should  I  be  afraid  ? 

•"Praise  as  j'ou  may.  when  tlic  t;de  is  done. 
She  is  but  a  maid  to  be  wooed  and  won.' " 

But  to-morrow  comes  and  he  does  not  speak.     He 


I!  11 


1^ 


n 


i'lt' 


I 


278 


AFTKM   TlIK   CON'CFJRT. 


does  not  feel  sentinu'iital,  us  it  cliancos,  iiu(\  no  ft'llovir 
can  propose  in  coM  blood.  And  Saturday,  and  Sun- 
day, and  Monday  cotnc,  and  still  »;ol(k'n  silence  rci<^n8, 
and  his  fate  lianas  in  the  balance.  And  Monday  even- 
inif  is  the  evenin*;-  of  tiie  concert,  and  there  is  no  lon<rer 


cl 


jance  or  time. 


'J'he  whok'  Vent  nor  family  go.  Olga,  in  India  mus- 
lin, with  touches  of  crimson  here  and  there  in  her  pale, 
crisp  draperies  and  laces,  is,  as  ever,  bew  ihlering.  A 
fairly   fashionable  assembly    tills   the    hall,   and    iVliss 


Vent 


nor  finds  an  acquaintance  who  seems  to  know   al! 


about  the  musical  star  of  the  nitjtht. 


"A  very  charming  songstress,!  assure  you,"  the 
lady  says.  "She  travels  with  her  guardian  and  hife 
wife — Germans,  I  believe — and  has  u  very  sweet  and 
powerful  contralto,  with  an  odd  sort  of  pathos  in  it 
that  most  people  are  captivated  by  who  hear  her  sing. 


I  h 


lave  seen    her  give  nearly  a 


w 


hoi 


e  even  in  if  s  enter 


taimnent  herself,  singing  song  after  sonir,  in  character 
Avith  a  rajudity  and  power  quite  amazing.  It  is  very 
good  of  her  to  proffer  her  services  in  this  waj'  ;  but 
then  she  is  good  ;  it  is  quite  like  her.  She  is  the  most 
generous  and  large-hearted  creature  in  the  world — and 
beyond  reproach,  I  assure  you.  In  all  quarters  Miss 
AVild  is  most  highly  spoken  of." 

"Yes?"  Olga  savs,  indifferently.  She  is  not  much 
interested,  naturally,  in  Miss  Wild  or  her  character. 
Her  glass  sweeps  the  hall,  and  she  is  l)usy  acknowledg- 
ing bows.  It  is  something  of  a  bore  to  be  here  at  all, 
after  seasons  of  Patti  and  Nilsson  abroad.  Still,  it  is 
for  Mr.  Lamb,  and  she  is  Olga  Ventnor — and  noblesse 
ohW/e. 

The   curtain    rises  ;  the  stage  is  handsomely  dece- 


it ; 


ABTKFi   Tin-:   rONCKUT. 


279 


13 

■He 


0- 


rafed.  A  slim,  dark  yotins^  man,  with  great  Italian 
eyes  and  accent,  appears,  and  sitij^s,  "  Let  Me  Lil^e  a 
Soldier  Fall,"  in  a  very  tine  baritone  voice.  Then  there 
isa  piano  solo — Liszfs  "llhapsodie"  No.  2,  performed 
111  a  masterly  manner  hy  Ilerr  Ericson,  and  then  Miss 
Jenny  Wild  is  hcfoie  them,  and  "Love  My  Lovo"  is 
rincjin:^  thronyh  the  cojicert-room,  in  a  voice  that  makes 
even  Olga  Ventnor,  ditticult  as  she  is,  look  np  in  pleased 
surprise.  And  lookinj^  once,  she  looks  a^ain.  The 
pinij^er,  a  tall,  linely-formed  youn<^  woman,  dressed 
simply  enoiii^h,  in  dark  silk,  is  a  persoti  to  commaml 
from  most  people  a  second  Lilance.  It  is  hardly  a  hand- 
Bome  face,  l)ut  if  is  a  strikini^  one  ;  the  features  ;\ro 
good,  the  eyes  d.irk  nnd  brilliant,  a»id  with  an  intensity 
of  exj)ressi(jn  not  often  seen.  There  is  vivid  <b"a- 
matic  power  in  liei*  rendering  of  the  song — the  voice 
has  that  sweet,  touching,  minor  tone  Olga  has  heard 
of.  But  sometliing  beyond  all  this  strikes  and  holds 
Miss  Ventnor,  "  As  in  a  glass  darkly  "  she  seems  to 
reoo:(nize  that  face,  that  voice.  She  knifs  her  brows, 
and  tiies  to  recall.  In  vain — Miss  Jenny  Wild  refuses 
to  be  placed.  She  concludes  her  song,  and  disajtpeara 
in  the  midst  of  a  tumult  of  applause. 

"  Siie  is  really  a  very  fine  singer,"  Olga  says  to  the 
lady  by  her  side,  "but  it  is  the  oddest  thing — I  seem 
to  have  seen  and  heard  her  somewhere  before." 

"You  have  attended  some  of  her  concerts,  per- 
haps ?"  tlie  lady  suggests. 

"No,  it  cannot  be  that — this  is  the  first  concert  I 
have  attended  since  my  return  to  America.  Frank  !" 
imperiously,  "  are  you  asleep  ?  What  are  yoa  thinking 
of,  sitting  there,  with  that  dazed  look?" 

"Of  Miss  Jenny  Wild.    Somewhere — in  some  otlier 


i  ■ 
!  I 

1  ( 
f  • . 
I  ' 
I  I 


U 


i  I 


280 


AFTKli  THE   COXCKUT, 


pl:inot,  |)(>rlj!i})s — I  must  Iiiivo  met  tli;il  yoinii?  lady  ho- 
f(jr('.     Ah  !  slic  is  irood-nnlurc*!  ;  wlu;  ionijoiuIs  to  ihe 


encore. 


IF 


(Tc  she  IS  ;i<^;iiii 


'> 


iNIiss  Wild  r(';i]>j)(';irs,  howinuj  pfriioionsly  to  tliG 
hoarty  call  slic  lias  received.  Her  line  dark  eyes 
calmly  survey  llie  lumse,  and  lift  and  rest  for  the  lirst 
time    on    tlu^   Veiitnor    i»artv.       'I'liey    fall    on    Frank 

1  •  •• 

Livinixston,  and  met;t  his  )niz/.led  irlanr-e  full. 

A  sliufht  flush  rises  to  her  face,  a  sjii^ht  smile  dawns 
about  the  lij)s,  then  her  graceful  liij^nre  is  drawn  nji, 
and  sh(>  is  sin^inuf  "  \Vilhin  a  Mile  of  Kdinhoro'  Town." 
The  old,  <»ver-weI('oiiu!  favorite!  is  listened  to  with  de- 
liijjht,  and  a  ureat  lia^ket  of  (lowers  is  presented  to  the 
sinjjer.     Olu^a  hands  I'^ank  her  boiniiiet. 

"Throw  it,"  she  says  ;  "she  deserv(>s  it.  She  sang 
that  delisjjht  fully.  ]\riss  Jenny  Wild  is  worth  coiniiiL;  to 
hear.    liiit,  oh!  vhcra  have  I  seen  and  heard  her  hejore  V  " 

Frank  throws  the  cluster  of  white  roses  with  un- 
erring aim — it  lights  at  the  feet  of  the  songstress. 
She  stoo))s  and  ]*icks  it  up,  ajid  again  that  slight 
glance,  and  fhisli,  and  smile  rest  on  Livingston,  as  she 
bows  and  (juits  the  stage. 

The  Italian  sings  again.  TIerr  Erieson  performs  a 
rini^ing  Rondo,  and  ]Miss  Wild  sings  the  grand  aria, 
"  Nabuco  "  from  Verdi,  quite  magniileently,  and  again 
ia  rapturously  encored.  Once  more  she  responds  with 
another  Scotch  song,  "  Sleeping  ^Maggie,"  and  once  more 
lier  eyes  look  and  linger  with  evident  amusement  on 
the  profoundly  j)uzzled  face  of  Frank  Livingston. 
Then  the  concert  is  over,  and  they  are  out  in  the  sweet 
darkness  of  tlie  June  night. 

"  Who  is  Miss  Jenny  Wild  ?"  cries  Olga,  im- 
patiently ;  "  I  hate  to  be  puzzled,  and  she  puzzles  me. 


AFTKU   TIIK   CONCKRT. 


281 


•j" 


with 
Imore 

it  on 
Irston. 
Iswei't 

im- 
}8  me. 


Frank,  T  cointnaiid    you  I  tiiid   out   all   alxmt   licr,  ami 
tfll    iiic  why  Ik'I'  liu'i'   and    vo'km*    ari!    so    ridiculously 


familiar.     And   she  lias,  ex  idcntlv 


» ' 


si'cn    V'>;/ 


hcf 


ore 


she  did  you  the  honor  to  look  at   you  more   llian   once 


in  the  most  marked  matiner."  • 

"  I  Lfo  to-morrow,"  is  {"'rank's  answer,  "  and  whether 
I  shall  ever  return  to  discover  Miss  .lenny  Wild's  an- 
tecedents, or  for  any  other  rt'ason,  depejids  entirely  on 


yon,  ()li;a,  and  what  you  will  say  to  me  lo-niL,dit.  I  " 

The  hour  h;iH  come — the  two  are  aloi'e,  linLTcrinfj 
foi  a  monu'Ut  hefore  sayiiiLT  ijfood-niudit  and  jijoirii;-  in. 
They  stand  on  lhe|)ia//a  ;  the  .linie  stars  >hine  ahov 
them  ;  the  silemu'  of  niidnit^ht  is  around  them. 


e 


S! 


le 


It    1 


iiu*(>s  at    him   in  siirprisi' ;    slie  is   liummin 


I  J? 


"  Within  a  Mile  of  Edinboro'  Town." 

"'  For  I  cannot — wuiinot — wunnot — wunnot  buckle 
to!'"  she  sings,  and  then   breaks  of!  to  lauyh. 

"What  a  traujical  face  !  What  a  ilespevale  tone  ! 
What  a  dramatic  speech!  You  go  to-morrow,  and 
whether  you  will  ever  return  de|>e!id8  on  what  1  will 
Kay  to-night  !  Keally,  Frank,  the  concert,  and  iho 
imj)assioned  singing  of  Miss  Wild  have  l)een  loo  much 
for  you.  Must  you  really  go  to-morrow  ?  I  am  sorry. 
Hurry  back. 

"  Are  you  sorry,  Olga  ?  Shall  you  miss  mo  ?  Do 
you  care  for  me,  I  wonder,  the  very  least  in  the  world? 
Oh,  you  know  what  I  mean  !  Do  not  laugh  at  me,  for 
God's  sake!"  witii  almost  angry  impatience.  "You 
have  laughed  at  me  long  enough  !  I  love  you,  Olga  I — 
I  want  you  to  be  my  wife  ! " 

The  words,  thought  of  so  long,  come  abruptly 
enough — roughly,  indeed.  lie  sees  in  her  face  the 
familiar,   mocking    look   he   knows   so    well — a   look 


ill! 


i  5. 


iii 


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Photographic 

Sciences 
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23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

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282 


AFTEK  THE   CONCERT. 


nothing  seems  t<)  have  power  to  soften  or  change. 
But  at  the  irritated  passion  of  his  voice  and  face  it 
dies  out,  and  she  looks  at  him  with  smiling,  gentle, 
lialf  amused  eyes. 

"  1  like  you  so  much,  Frank,  that  I  am  sorry  you 
liave  said  this.  You  do  not  mean  it,  do  you  ?  We 
have  been  ])laying  at  flirtation  all  our  lives,  and,  by 
mistake,  you  liave  fancied  the  play  earnest  to-night. 
Yon  are  not  in  h)ve  willi  me — you  do  not  want  me  to 
be  your  wife;.  You  would  be  miserable  if  1  said  yes, 
and  vou  know  it.     But   fear  not.     I  am  not   Cfoiiio;  to 


5? 


All 


say  yes. 

"Say  it  and  try  !  I  will  risk  the  misery.  All  my 
life  will  be  devoted  to  you,  every  thought  of  my  heart, 
if  you  will  marry  me,  Olga." 

"Marry  you  !"  she  repeats;  "marry  you,  Frank  !" 
There  is  that  in  her  tone  makes  Livingston  redden 
angrily  and  throw  back  his  head.  She  laughs  a  little 
in  sj)ite  of  herself.  "I  never  thought  of  such  a  thing 
in  my  life,"  she  says,  with  cruel  coolness. 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  the  young  man  de- 
mands, in  no  very  tender  tone,  "  that  you  did  not 
know  it  was  a  compact  made  and  agreed  to  years  and 
years  ago  ?" 

"  Never  !"  she  answers,  with  energy,  "  never  !  In 
such  compact  I  had  no  share — of  such  compact  I  never 
heard.  Oh,  yes  !"  contemptuously,  in  reply  to  his 
indignant  glance;  "  I  have  heard  hints,  innuendoes, 
seen  smiles  and  wise  glances;  but  do  you  think  I 
heeded  them  ?  They  are  the  impertinences  relatives; 
seem  to  think  they  have  a  right  to.  There  is  but  one 
person  on  earth  who  has  a  right  to  speak  to  me  of  such 
a  thing — my   dear   father — and   he   has   been    silent. 


AFTER    LOXG    YEARS. 


288 


Atul  T  do  not  care  for  yon,  Frank-in   that   vvav      I 
an,  very  iond  of  yon-ti.ero    never  svas  a  time  wliJn  I 

--  -t,  I   think/' she   says,  ana    IwWds  ont    lH.r  hand 

•    With   the  sweet,    allnrn.^   smile    that    makes    n.en   her 

Slaves       there  never  will  come  a  ti.ne  wlien  I  shall     ..t 

be      Lnt  not  like  that.     There  is  not  a  friend  I  have 

the  wor Id  I  wonhl  not  sooner  lose  than  von;  so 
shaKo  hands  and  forget  and  for^unvc  all  this.  ^L.t  „s 
say  good-n.ght  and  good-by,  and  when  y<m  return- 
say  in  three  or  fonr  weeks-yon  will  ha've  fo.-gotten 
ne  fancy  of  to-night.  Do  not  look  cross,  Frank,  it 
does  not  become  yon— and  come  in." 

«ho    slips    her    hand    through    his   arm,    and,  half 

;-;.lnng  ath.s  moody  face,  draws  him  into  the  house, 
i  o  gas  bur,.  low  in  the  drawing-rootn,  the  piano 
stands  open;  she  strikes  the  keys  as  she  stands,  smiling 
over  her  shoulder,  and  sin.vs:  ^ 

''The  fairest  rose  blooms  but  a  day-Good-byl 
1  lit  tan-est  sprnig  mast  end  willi'  May, 
And  you  and  1  can  onlv  say 
Good-by,  good-bv.  go')a-l)y!" 


"»*»- 


CHAPTER  III. 

AFTER   LOXG   YEARS. 

HE  morning  that  follows  this  night  of  tho 
concert  is  bleak  and  raw  for  .Tune.  A  drab 
sky  frowns  on  a  sunless  world;  tho  wind 
IS  as  much  like  November  as  the  month  of 
roses,  and  the  weather-wise  predict  rain.  JJut  in  this 
threatenmg  stateof  the  weather  Miss. fenny  Wild  hires 
a  pony  carriage,  and  starts  all  by   herself   for  a  drive 


lil- 


I 


1 

! 

1 

':      1 

j    '■ 

•| 

■ 

-  1 

Lk 

L 

LM 

284 


AFTKR    L()\0    YKAH8. 


'  i   ! 


I 


Xot  for  an  aimless  drive — she  stM^ms  to  kno\r  very  well 
wiicro  she  wants  to  ujo.  tSlic  is  very  ))lainly  di-essed, 
in  black,  a  straii^ht  dark  iii^ure  sittiiiLj  upriLi;!!!  in  the 
little  earriatre,  a  ])lack  straw  liat,  with  a  blue  vail 
twisted  round  it,  on  her  head.  ,She])ullsthi8  vail  over 
her  I'ace  as  she  drives  throni:;!!  the  village,  and,  <^lancing 
hai'dl)'  to  tiie  riti;ht  or  left,  takes  the  woodland  road, 
and  pulls  up  at  the  Red  Farm,  erstwhile  fSleaford's. 

Here  siie  sits  and  t^azes  Tor  a  lonsj^,  Ioul^  time,  with 
darkly-thoui^hti'ul  face  ami  broodiiiL?  eyes,  at  the 
dreary  and  deserted  house.  There  her  most  miserable 
childhood  was  spent  ;  working  in  that  kitchen  her 
most  miserable  girlhood  woi-e  on  ;  in  tliat  attic  room 
how  many  supremely  wretched  nights  of  cold,  and 
pain,  and  isolation,  and  heart-break  the  child  Joanna 
struggled  through  !  In  that  adjoining  chamber  her 
merciless  task-master  had  met  his  fale,  and  passed  to 
his  death.  In  that  parlor,  with  its  shattered  j)anes, 
how  njany  a  jolly  revel  had  been  held,  in  which  her 
part  was  only  additional  drudgery.  And  yet  she  had 
liked  them,  too;  there  were  light  and  music,  and 
laughter  and  dancing,  and  youth,  and  at  one  of  them 
fihe  had  first  seen  Frank  Livingston's  gay,  handsome 
face — tiie  same  face,  older,  manlier,  she  had  looked 
upon  again  last  night.  Out  of  yonder  broken  gate 
she  had  watched  him  come  one  never  to-be-forgotten 
morning,  with  his  fair  little  cousin  in  his  arms.  Last 
night  he  had  sat  by  that  fair  young  cousin's  side,  and 
listened  to  iier  singing.  Always  these  two  are  .asso- 
ciated in  her  mind,  and  always  with  a  sense  of  dull, 
morbid  pain.  In  that  gloomy  kitchen  she  first  saw 
Geoffrey  Lamar,  the  true,  noble-hearted  friend  who 
had  done  all  in  his  power  to  lift  her  out  of  her  misery 


AFTKU    LONG    YEARS. 


285 


y  well 

■essetl, 

in  U>e 

iC   villi 

ill  over 

anciiig 

1   r<n\d, 

rd's. 

V,  witli 

at    the 

iscrable 

jcn    lier 

ic  room 

>M,   :Ati<l 
Joanna 

liber  her 

lassctl  to 

a   panes, 

hich   her 
she  had 

isic,   and 
of  them 
audsoniG 
(\  h)oked 
<en   gate 
)vo;otten 
IS.     Last 
side,  and 
are  asso- 
e  of  dull, 
first  saw 
iend   v.- ho 
a  misery 


I 


and  out  of  h.M-self.  Here  wild  Joatma  snfTii'ed  and 
slaved,  was  beaten  and  girded  at  ;  from  here  she  tied, 
out  into  the  world,  with  George  J>Iake  !  And  today 
she  might  iiave  bt'en  George  Blake's  wife,  if  ehanec — 
or  Providenee — had  not  thi'own  in  her  way  Frank 
Livini'ston,  and  so  in  a  moment  chan<red  lier  whole 
life. 

She  turns  from  the  eerie  spot  at  last,  and  goes  on 
to  Blattk's  Dam.  IUm-c,  too,  time  and  der'ay  have  lain 
their  ruinous  finger.  The  old  mill,  her  sh.elter  and 
solace  so  often,  has  fallen  to  utter  deejay,  the  j)ond  is 
almost  dry — silent  desolation  reigns.  She  turns  from 
it  witii  a  shudder,  atid  drives  away.  Great  drops  of 
rain  are  beginning  to  ))atter,  but  she  cares  almost  as 
little  for  a  wetting  now  as  in  the  old  days.  She  drives 
to  Abbott  Wood — the  old  gate-keeper  lives  still  in  the 
vine-wreathed  Gothic  lodge,  but  he  can  giv<!  her  no 
news  of  iiis  missing  mistress. 

A  lawver  from  the  citv  does  everything  that  is  to 
be  dono  in  these  latter  days.  Of  ]\[rs.  Abbott  or  Mr. 
GeotTrey  no  one  seems  to  know  anything.  Tlie  rain 
falls  heavily  as  she  drives  through  the  lovely,  leafy 
avenues,  up  to  the  grand,  silent,  somber  house.  The 
blinds  are  down,  the  shutters  closed  ;  it  looks  as  if  it 
■were  mourning  for  those  it  has  lost.  She  does  not  go 
in,  thoujjrh  she  is  invited  to  do  so  bv  Mrs.  Hill.  She 
feels  she  cannot  look  at  those  fair,  empty  apartments, 
filled  by  the  haunting  faces  of  half  a  dozen  years  ago. 
Her  own  is  among  them — the  restless,  uidiappy,  aim- 
less Joanna  of  seventeen.  She  is  neither  aimless  nor 
restless  now.  She  has  found  her  niche  and  work  in 
life,  and  they  suit  her  well.  Ihit  happy  ?  Well,  she 
is  hardly  that,  and  yet  a  very  diiferent,  a  much  wiser, 


i  ' 


286 


AFTIOIJ    I.OXG    YKARS. 


gentler,  nobler  Joanna,  than  the  dark,  discontentod 
pi'oft  >/('('  of  Geoifrey  Lamar.  Sofleiied  and  ffood  she 
has  gi'own,  through  years  of  kindness  and  affection 
given  to  her  lavishly  and  loyally  by  tli(^  I lerr  Professor 
and  M:t(ianie  Ki-ieson.  All  that  is  best  in  lier  has 
its  day  at  last.  Of  friends  she  has  many  ;  of  lovers 
she  has  had  l;:'r  share  ;  of  admirers  more  than  she 
cares  to  remember.  And  love  lias  redeemed  her,  and 
"]Miss  Jenny  Wild"  is  all  that  they  say  of  her,  and 
more,  giving  of  her  abundance  to  all  who  ask  and 
need. 

That  afternoon  Professor  P^ricson  and  liis  family, 
as  he  calls  them,  leave  15ri<]i:htbrook.  Hv  the  morning 
train  ^Nfr.  Frank  Livingston  has  gone  up  to  New  Yo)'k, 
and  while  ^lissWild  is  recalling  the  (lays  of  jier  youth, 
he  is  spinning  along,  a  cigar  between  his  li])s,  the 
morning  paper  in  his  hand,  far  from  the  scene  of  his 
despair.  Truth  to  tell,  he  lo(;ks  anything  but  despair- 
ing this  mornin<j^,  in  a  most  becoming  EuLjlisii  suit  of 
the  very  roughest  gray  tweed,  fresh,  vigorous,  good- 
looking,  alert.  Broken-hearted  at  his  rejection  he  has 
a  right  to  be,  and  may  be  ;  but  a  broken  he:;rt  is  be- 
coming to  some  peo))le,  aixl  Livingston  i>  aj  parently 
one  of  them.  In  his  secret  soul  there  is  rather  a  sen- 
sation of  relief,  that  as  the  train  bowls  along  it  bears 
him  in  its  throbbing  bosom  a  free  man  !  He  has  done 
what  destiny  and  his  Maker,  and  the  united  house?<  of 
Vent  nor  and  Livingston  expected  of  him,  and  she  has 
said  No,  and  there  is  no  appeal.  And  when  Mr.  Liv- 
ingston dies,  and  worms  eat  him,  whatever  the  immc' 
diate  cause  may  be,  he  is  comfortably  convinced  it 
will  not  be  love.  So,  in  a  fairly  cheerful  mood,  he 
surveys  his  fellow-passengers,  unfolds  his  Brightbrook 


AFTER    LO'SG    VKAR3. 


287 


i|:; 


itontod 
D(l   she 
feet  ion 
ofessor 
icr    h:is 
lovers 
lan  she 
ler,  and 
icr,  and 
isk  and 

family, 
novniiig 
w  York, 
M-  youth, 
lips,  the 
e  of  his 
despair- 
1  suit  of 
us,  good- 
)n  he  has 
vt  is  be- 
parently 
er  a  sen- 
it  bears 
has  done 
houses  of 
d  she  has 
I  Mr.  Liv- 
he  imnie- 
ivinced  it 
mood,  he 
ightbrook 


paper,  and  reads  what  the  musical  critic  of  that  sheet 
has  to  say  about  last  night's  concert.  ]Miss  AVild  is 
lauded,  and  Livingston  is  disposed  to  laud  also.  She 
sang  remarkablv  well,  and  looked  verv  im))osing.  That 
grand  aria  from  "Nabiico"  is  still  ringi'ig  in  his  ears, 
and  it  occurs  to  him  once  more  to  wonder  why  her  face 
should  be  so  oddly  familiar.  Not  a  pnlty  face,  he 
decides,  but  a  good  one,  a  striking  one,  and  once  seen 
not  easily  forgotten.  And  then  he  turns  to  another 
column  and  subject,  and  forgets  all  about  it. 

He  sjiends  thi'eeor  four  days  in  New  York,  among 
ol<l  friends  and  old  haunts.  His  principal  object  in 
coming  to  town  is  to  tell  his  mother  the  result  t>f  his 
proposal,  and  so  make  an  end  of  that  business  at  once 
and  forever  ;  but  his  mother  has  gone  on  a  visit.  He 
proposes  to  follow  her,  for  he  knows  it  is  a  subject  on 
which  she  is  more  than  anxious  ;  but  it  is  news  that 
will  keep,  and  he  does  not  hurry  himself.  On  the 
evening  of  the  third  day  he  sees  by  the  bills  that  Miss. 
Jenny  Wild  is  to  give  one  of  her  character  concerts, 
and  makes  up  his  mind  to  go. 

"Perhaps  I  shall  be  able  to  ])lace  her  this  time," 
he  thinks,  "  and  so  get  rid  of  her  altogether.  I  be- 
lieve 1  was  dreaming  of  her  half  the  night  last  night." 

So,  a  little  after  the  commencement  of  the  concert, 
Mr.  Livingston  saunters  in,  and  finds  a  large  and 
fashionable  gathering.  Many  of  the  faces  present  are 
familiar;  one  lady  in  a  private  box  bows,  and  smiles, 
and  beckons,  and  in  a  few  moments  he  is  shaking  haiuja 
with  Mrs.  Van  Rensselaer  and  her  daughters. 


(( 


So  glad  to  meet  you  once  more,  my  dear  boy 


ii 


that  great  and  gracious  lady  exclai 


ms. 


and  looki 


nsr 


i 


so  extremely  sun-burned  and  well.     We  heard  you  liad 


n 


''..1 


M:i       ! 


!    . 


\ 


288 


AFTKli  LONG    YICARS. 


rotnrnorl  witli  llio  Vcntnors,  and  wove  slavincr  with 
tlicm  :>.t  lli;if  cliiiriniiig  vlllii.  And  how  is  dour  Mrs. 
Vent  nor,  and  tlic  lovely  Olga,  after  Iheir  prolonged 
Enroj>('an  lour  ?" 

"  AFrs.  ^'ontnor  is  nnicli  as  usual,  and  Olga  is  rather 
lovelier  than  usual,"  says  Frank. 

"And  when  are  we  to  congratulate  you,  I\Ir.  Liv- 
ingston y"  says  the  elder  jNIiss  Van  ]lensselaer,  a  dash- 
ing and  daring  brunette,  hut  not  (juite  so  young  as  she 
used  to  be,  "Ah  !  we  hear  ni(»re  than  you  think,  \vg 
8tay-at-honies.  We  exjK'(!te<l  Olga  would  have  cap- 
tured a  duke  at  least,  so  many  rich  American  girls  are 
making  brilliant  matches  this  year.  And  yet  there 
she  is,  la  hrlle  den  belles,  back  again  and — as  we  under- 
stand— unattached  !  But  you  can  open  the  mysteries, 
no  doubt." 

"  I  only  know  Olga  refused  half  the  peerage  !"  says 
Livingston,  with  calm'mendacity.  "As  for  your  very 
flattering  hints,  JNIiss  Van  Rersselaer,  you  do  me  too 
much  honor  in  inferring  /  have  anything  to  do  with 
it.  I  might  as  well  love  some  bright  particular  star, 
and  so  on,  as  my  beautiful  Cousin  Oiga.  Such 
daughters  of  the  gods  are  not  for  impecunious  artists 
like  myself.  Ah  !  here  is  Miss  Wild,  and  as  Mar- 
guerite, singing  the  famous  'Jewel  Song.'  ITow  well 
she  is  looking,  and  in  what  capital  voice  she  is  to- 
night." 

"  You  have  seen  her  before  ?"  Miss  Brenda  Van 
Rensselaer  inquires. 

"Once  before,  at  a  concert  lastlNIonday  night.  Her 
voice  has  the  rimxins:  of  mountain  bells,  and  what 
pathos  and  dramatic  force  she  has.     She  would  make  a 


AP^TER    LOXCS  YKAHS. 


289 


with 
Mrs. 
nged 

ather 

.  Liv- 

(lash- 
is  she 
ik,  we 
)  cap- 
i-ls  are 
there 
undor- 
aeries, 

1?"  says 
vory 
mo  too 
with 
star, 
Such 
artists 
Mar- 
w  well 
is  to- 
la Van 

it.  Her 
il  what 
make  a 


fine  actress.     It  strikes  inc  ^liss  Wild  ji^rows  on  one.   I 
likelier  hetter  now  tlian    I  did  even  then." 

"Oh  !  she  is  lovely,"  cries  Miss  Hreiida,  gusli in<j;Iy. 
"  We  are  the  greatest  friends.  She  is  received  by  the 
very  best  jx'ople.  She  is  |.>erf'ectly  charming  in  private 
life,  ajid,  unlike  most  artists,  always  so  willing  to  sing. 
She  comes  to  us  to-night  after  the  concert  ;  mamma 
has  a  reception.  I  think  h'  •  drawing-room  songs  are 
even  more  beautiful  than  her  stage  singing." 

"Come  and  make  her  acquaintance,"  says  Mrs. 
Van  Rensselaer,  graciously. 

"Thanks — I  will,"  Livingston  responds. 

lie  is  exceedingly  taken  by  Miss  Wild,  ho  loves 
music  almost  more  than  he  does  art,  and  iier  voice,  her 
look  ar'j  sosympatheti(!  that  they  draw  him  irresistibly. 
Besides,  he  wants  to  discover  what  is  that  familiar  look 
about  lier  that  so  perplexes  him  now. 

"  W/io  is  Miss  Wild  i'"  he  asks,  as,  in  the  midst  of 
hearty  applanse,  she  quits  the  stage. 

"Ah!  who,  indeed?"  returns  the  elder  Miss  Van 
Rensselr.er.  "Find  somebody  to  answer  that  if  you 
can  !  No  one  knows  ;  she  arose  first  a  little  pale  star 
out  West,  and  went  on  shining  and  enlarging  until  she 
is  the  star  of  first  magnitude.  You  see  her  now. 
Ilark  to  the  clapping — she  will  return  in  a  moment — 
they  always  encore  her  songs.  Flattering,  but  rather 
a  bore,  I  should  think.  Here  she  is  ;  what  will  she 
give  us  now,  I  wonder  ?" 

An  hour  later  he  stands  in  the  Van  Rensselaer 
drawing-rooms,  and  awaits  his  introduction  to  the  can- 
tatrice.  He  cannot  tell  why  he  is  so  vividly  inter- 
ested in  her,  unless  it  is  caused  by  that  puzzling  famil- 
iarity.    But  interested  and  impatient  he  is,  and  as  he 

13 


■r 

r 

i 


r 


200 


AFTKIl   LONG  YKAI'.S. 


has  novcr  been  to  meet  any  artist  of  tlio  kiiul 
before. 

•'Mr.  Liviiigsloii,  ]\Iiss  Wild,"  says,  sitnply,  liis 
hostess,  and  he  looks  down  into  two  dark,  jewel-liivo 
eyes,  into  a  sniilinLj  face.  He  is  ediiseious  <jf  bowiiis^ 
and  nmi'imiring  liis  ]»leasiiri' — another  inonient  and 
Rome  one  else  has  claimed  lier,  and  siic  turns — is 
gone. 

He  looks  after  her  with  knitted  brows,  and  ever 
deepening;  ])er|)lexities.  That  tall  liijjnre,  that  gentle, 
earnest  face,  those  Lireat  <xein-Hke  eyes — they  are  in 
Borae  mysterious  way  as  \v'ell-knt)wn  to  him  as  his  own 
face  in  the  glass.  He  tries  to  ni)j)roach  lier  more  than 
once  as  the  evening  wi-ars  on,  but  she  is  always 
Burrounded.  'J'he  charm  of  her  manner  evidently 
carries  all  befoi'e  it,  as  well  as  the  cdiarm  of  her  voice. 

Presently,  wheti  he  is  about  to  give  up  in  despair, 
lie  liears  her  singing,  and  makes  his  way  to  the  piauo. 
The  words  she  siui^s  he  has  never  lieard  before — the 
air  is  tender  and  very  sweet. 

"  My  darling!  my  darling!  my  darlinf;! 

Do  you  know  how  I  vvimt  you  to-niglit? 
The  wind  ])asses,  moanin-j,"  and  snarling, 

Like  some  evil  gliost  on  its  lliy'ht. 
On  the  wet  street  your  lamp's  gleam  shines  redly; 

You  are  sitting  alone — did  you  start 
As  I  spoked     Did  you  guess  at  this  deadly 

Chill  pain  in  my  heart  ? 

"  Out  hero  where  the  dull  rain  is  falling, 

Just  onec — ;iust  a  moment — I  wait; 
Did  you  hear  the  sad  voice  that  was  calling 

Your  name,  as  I  paused  by  the  gate  5 
It  was  just  a  mere  breath,  ah,  I  know,  dear, 

Not  even  Love's  ears  could  have  hcaid; 
But,  oh,  I  was  hungering  so,  dear, 

For  one  little  word. 


Iv,   \u^ 

nt  iuhI 
irns — i;i 

tul   ever 

V  [lYii    ill 

liis  own 
oro  tli;iH 
i  always 
}vi(lLMilly 

despair, 
ic  j»iauo. 
:ore— tl\e 


es  vcdly; 

ly 


ear. 


"  Ah,  inc!   for  a  word  lliit  couM  move  you, 
Liki!  a  wliispcr  of  iikil^mmI  art  I 
I  loV(!  you!    1  love  ytiul    I  lovt)  you! 

TliLTc  is  no  othi-'i'  word  in  my  licart 


291 


n 


SIjo  looks  u{)  ;  her  eyes  meet  his.  Has  she  hcvn 
conscious  of  his  pri'scncc  thiTi'  all  alotij^?  Ilcr  hands 
Ktrikc  the  \vror)g  chords  ;  there  is  a  jar  and  discord  ; 
a  flush  rises  over  her  face  j  she  laughs,  and  suddenly 
breaks  olF. 

"Oh,  go  on  !"  half  a  dozen  voices  cry  ;  "that  is 
lovelv." 

"  I  sine:  it  from  niemorv,"  ^liss  Wild  says.  "It  is 
a  little  poeni  I  lit  upon  the  other  day  in  a  magazine, 
and  it  seemed  to  tit  some  music  I  had.  I  will  sing  you 
something  better  instead." 

She  sings  "Ivathleen  ]\ravonrneen,"  and  looks  im 
more  at  Frank  Livingston.  lie  stands  wondering,  and 
of  his  wonder  finding  no  end.  He  turns  over  absi-ntly 
some  sheets  of  music  bearing  her  name,  and  as  ho 
does  so,  from  one  of  them  a  written  page  falls.  It  is 
the  song  she  has  broken  oft".  Instantly  be  commits 
petty  larceny,  and  puts  it  in  his  pocket. 

"  It  v»  ill  serve  as  an  excuse  to  call  upon  lier  and 
restore  her  property,"  thinks  this  "artful  dodger." 
"  Find  out  who  she  is  I  must,  or  I  shall  perish  misera- 
bly of  curiosity." 

"Kathleen  Mavourneen  "  is  finished,  and  she  makes 
a  motion  to  rise  ;  but  her  listeners  seem  insatiable. 

"  Only  one  more — one  little,  little  one,  dear  Miss 
Wild,"  a  young  lady  says. 

She  pauses,  glances  at  Livingston's  absorbed  face, 
smiles,  and  begins,  "  My  Ain  Ingleside."  And  then, 
ill  one  second,  like  a  flash,  a  shock,  the  truth  bursts 


i 


20'J 


AFTKU  LONG  VKAKS. 


;        1    f 


\'-\ 


Upon  liitn.  llo  li:is  licuid  tliiit  fn)\\<x  l»i'foro  !  Tii  iha 
(Ir.'iwiiiix-i'ooui  of  Abbott  Wood  lie  lias  licard  tlio  samo 
voico  siiiLT  if  !  He  stands  ju'lrifu'd,  spi'llboiind,  brcatli- 
loss,  his  cyi'M  on  her  face.  SIcaford's  .Joanna  !  Yes, 
yi'M,  yi's  !  the  reddish,  uidvcmpt  hair  shinintjj,  daiU, 
becoininujiy  dressed,  the  swi-et  voice  jtcrfeeted, 
womanly,  and  sweet,  but  still — Sk'aford's  Joanna  I 

How  it  comes  about  he  (hies  not  know,  but  five 
minutes  hiter  he  is  standing  with  her  ah)ne,  both  her 
liands  claspcMl  close  in  his. 

"  It  is  !"  lie  exclaims  ;  "I  cannot  be  mistaken.  It 
is  .loanna  !" 

"Sleat'ord's  Joatina,"  she  answers,  and  tears  slowly 
fill  her  eyes,  thouufh  her  lips  are  smilinu^.  "  I  saw  you 
knew  me,  ])U7,/led  as  you  looke<l,  and  thoui^ht,  th"  old 
Ronix  would  put  an  end  to  your  evident  misery.  Yes, 
Mr.  Livingsto?!,  after  all  these  years,  it  is  Joanna." 

"And  I  a»n  the  first  to  find  you,"  he  says,  triumpli- 
antly,  "  that  is  a  good  omen.  Tell  me  where  you  live. 
I  nuusf  come  to  see  you,  and  talk  over  the  old  days. 
You  shall  not  make  a  stranger  of  so  old  a  friend, 
Joanna." 

"  So  old  a  friend  !"  slio  draws  away  her  hands  and 
laughs.  "  \Verc  you  and  I  ever  friends?  Ah,  yes, 
come  and  see  me.  It  does  me  good  to  look  at  a  Hright- 
brook  face.  And  I  am  glad — yes,  glad,  that  yours  is 
the  first." 

"  And  that  is  Sleaford's  Joanna,"  Livingston  thinks, 
going  home  througli  the  cit}'  streets,  feeli?ig  dazed  and 
in  a  dream  ;  ''  fair,  stately,  famous  !  What  will  Olga 
say  when  I  tell  her  this  ?" 


[n  tho 

natli- 

(link, 
foclc'tl, 

a  I 

ut  livo 


on. 


It 


^  slowly 
^:iNV  yoii 
th"  oUl 
v.     Yes, 

riuinph- 
yoii  live, 
la  (lays. 
a  friend, 

wuh  and 
All,  yes, 
a  ]>riglit- 
yours  la 

on  tliinks, 

lazed  and 

win  Olga 


**  CAKlilKD     nV     STOIIM." 


CIIAITKU  IV. 


293 


M- 


(( 


caiii:ii:d  wy  stohm. 


M 


HEN  ]\Ir.  Frank  Livini;.«it(in  (mit'ios  his 
bliufhted  alTeetions  away  with  liiin  from 
IJrightbrook  and  his  fair,  cohl  t-ousin  Olijn, 
it  is,  as  has  hcen  said,  witli  tlie  intention 
of  seeini;  his  motlicr  ami  makinuj  an  end  of  that,  and 
then  starlinu:  olT  for  a  snininer  sketching  tonr,  thruuijji 
Canada  and   IJritish  Cohnnhia. 

That  was  liis  intention.  The  last  week  of  Jnne  is 
here,  and  so  is  ]Mr.  Jiivingston.  Canada  and  IJritisii 
Columbia — places  misty,  afar-ofT,  unseen  and  undeslred. 
Three  weeks  have  come  and  gone,  warm,  dusty  weeks, 
and  every  day  of  these  twenty-one  days  has  seeti  him 
by  the  side  of  i\Iiss  Jenny  Wihl,  and  for  more  hours  a 
day  than  he  cares  to  count. 

Miss  Wild  is  still  sinj^ing — not  every  night,  but  one 
or  two  evenings  a  week.  Slie  is  a  favorite  with  the 
musical  public,  and  her  concerts  are  always  well  at- 
tended. On  the  nights  she  sings,  a  slender  and  exceed- 
ingly handsome  young  man  may  be  observed  in  one  of 
the  front  seats,  drinking  m  with  entranced  looks  every 
note  of  that  sweet,  bell-like  voice.  jMiss  Wild  on  the 
stage,  in  trailing  silks  and  stage  adjuncts,  is  a  very 
imposing  and  graccftd  person. 

She  has  a  face  that  lights  up  well,  dark,  p^le,  and 
clear;  great  star-like  eyes,  and  the  most  beautiful 
smile  and  teeth — the  young  gontieman  irj  the  front 
seat  thinks — in  all  the  worM.  She  is  hardly  liand- 
some — at  times  she  is  positively  plain  ;  but  vet  there 


h 


I 


294 


a 


carri7:d   by  storm. 


?? 


Mi  :     t 


II    > 


are  otliors.  when,  flushed  and  sparkling  witli  excite- 
ment and  applause,  her  dark  eyes  shining,  she  is 
brilliantly  attractive.  She  jxissesses,  in  an  eminent 
degree,  that  magnetic  unknown  grace,  quite  apart  Croni 
heauty,  and  called  fascination.  Iler  smile  enchants  ; 
her  eyes  hold  you  ;  her  voice  liaunts  you  ;  her  tricks 
and  graces  of  manner  cajjtivato  before  you  know  it. 
Where  the  charm  exactly  lies  no  one  can  tell,  not  her 
most  bewitched  admirer,  but  it  is  there,  subtile  and 
irresistible.  The  tones  of  her  voice,  the  words  she 
says  and  sings,  the  light  of  her  eyes  and  her  smile 
linger  in  the  memory  of  men  after  lovelier  women  are 
forgotten.  Perha})s  it  is  a  little  in  lier  abounding 
vitality,  her  joyous  life,  her  lavish  largeness  of  heart, 
that  has  room  and  to  s})are  for  all  who  come.  Friends, 
admirers,  lovers,  if  you  will,  she  lias  many,  and  fore- 
most atnong  them  Frank  Livingston.  For  Frank 
Livingston  to  be  in  love,  or  what  he  calls  such,  is  no 
new  experience.  lie  has  loved  many  women,  and  been 
cared  for,  more  or  less,  a  good  deal,  in  turn.  Hand- 
some, insouciant,  inconstant,  ho  is  yet  a  gallant  and 
gracious  young  fellow,  for  whose  faults  fair  flirts  are 
quite  as  much  to  blame  as  his  own  intrinsic  infidelity. 
Three  weeks  ago  a  young  lady  refused  him — at  present 
he  is  the  ardent  admirer  of  another.  In  any  case  he 
would  have  taken  his  rejection  with  philosophy,  and 
consoled  himself  promptly — possibly  with  some  good- 
looking  young  squaw,  if  he  had  gone  to  British  Colum- 
bia. He  has  not  gone  to  that  chilly  land,  and  Miss 
Jenny  Wild,  the  songstress,  has  found  favor  in  my  lord's 
sisrht.  She  bewitches  him — her  force  of  character,  her 
great  popularity,  the  number  of  his  rivals,  the  evident 
preference  she  shows  him,  turn  his  head,     lie  ignorea 


ho   \a 
linont 
from 
lanls  ; 
tricks 
ow  it. 
ot  hor 
lo  and 
lis  slio 
•  smile 
en  are 
undini^ 
heart, 
^•iends, 
1(1  fore- 
Frank 
I),  is  no 
1  been 
lland- 
t  and 
rts  are 
fidelity. 
)resent 
case  he 
)]\y,  and 
le  good- 
Colum- 
nd  Miss 
ny  lord's 
cter,  her 
evident 
ignores 


u 


CARUIED    BY     STORM. 


?> 


295 


m 


past  and  future,  he  lives  in  the  preseiit — in  tlie  sun- 
light of  those  dark,  entrancing  eyes.  He  spends  every 
afternoon  by  her  side,  in  the  park,  in  the  streets,  in 
her  parlor.  lie  sketches  her  in  half  a  hundred  atti- 
tudes— lie  is  painting  her  portrait — he  is  perfectly 
happy  ! 

For  Miss  Wild — well,  Livingston  cannot  quite  make 
her  out.  Her  eyes  and  smile  welcome  him  always  ; 
slie  takes  his  bouquets,  she  sings  him  the  songs  he  likes. 
Her  doors  are  oj>en  to  him  when  closed  to  all  tlu^  rest 
of  the  world.  And  something  in  all  this  puzzles  him. 
If  it  were  any  one  else,  it  would  be  most  encouraging 
]»reference  ;  but  this  is  Joanna,  and  Joanna  is  dilTerti;.. 
He  does  not  understand  her.  He  is  by  no  means  sure 
of  what  her  answer  would  be,  if  he  were  inclined  to 
speak  to-morrow.  She  likes  him — yes,  of  that  there 
can  be  no  doubt  ;  but  if  he  were  to  say,  "Joanna,  will 
you  be  my  wife  ?"  ho  has  very  strong  doubts  of  what 
lier  answer  would  be.  ]>ut  he  really  has  no  intention 
of  asking  any  such  thing.  The  present  is  delightful  ; 
it  is  charming  to  be  with  her — that  sullices.  To-day  is 
good — why  lift  the  vail  that  hides  to-morrow  ?  To  be 
epris  is  one  thing,  to  ask  the  lady  to  marry  one  is 
another. 


"  And  so  to-night  is  your  last  appearance  for  the 
summer?"  he  says,  "and  you  all  go  to  your  Newport 
cottage  to-morrow?  Well,  New  York  is  no  longer 
habitable,  of  course  ;  but  what  an  elysium  I  have 
found  it  for  the  past  month  !  I,  too,  shall  go  to  New- 
port, Jcanna  !" 

"  And  that  sketching  and  hunting  tour  in  British 


•ill 


!f 


I  ■ 

i  i 


1 

1 '  i 

:    ;   1 

i  1 : 

:4T' 


II 


296 


**  CARRIED    BY    STORM 


n 


Columbia  ?  And  that  visit  to  your  anxious  mamma  ? 
What  of  them?"  sho  asks,  hiughing. 

They  sit  alone  in  the  cool,  groen-sharled  parlor, 
Joanna  doinir  lace  work,  Frank  on  an  ottoman  more  or 
less  at  her  feet,  with  the  Browning  he  has  been  read- 
ing aloud  tellin<j[ly,  on  his  knee. 

"  1  must  see  my  mother,"  he  answers,  frowning 
impatiently,  "but  it  will  be  a  flying  visit.  As  for 
British  Columbia — well,  British  Columbia  will  always 
be  there,  and  other  summers  will  come.  But  the 
chance  of  going  to  Newport — in  this  way — may  not 
occur  again." 

"I  think  it  had  better  not  occur  now.  Starton  that 
visit  to  ]\Irs.  Livingston  to-morrow,  and  take  train  from 
there  to  ^Montreal.  It  will  be  best,  believe  mo.  You 
have  had  a  surfeit  of  Newport  and  surf  bathing,  I 
ehould  think,  before  now." 

"  Neither  Newport  nor  surf  bathing  will  be  novel- 
ties, certainly.  But  I  do  not  go  for  them,  you  know 
that.     Do  you  forbid  me  to  follow,  Joanni?" 

"  Why  should  I  ?"  she  says,  and  her  dark  eyes  rest 
on  him  a  moment.  "I  like  you  to  be  with  me.  No, 
do  not  say  anything  complimentary,  please — I  was  not 
angling  for  that ;  I  mean  what  I  say.  It  brings  back 
the  old  times  and  the  faces  I  seem  to  have  lost  out  of 
iTiy  life.  That  past  is  a  dark  memory  enough,  and 
yet  it  holds  good  things — Mrs.  Abbott,  Geoffrey,  and 
dear  little  Leo.  I  can  never  regret  its  pain  when  I 
think  of  them." 

"And  does  it  hold  no  one  else  ?"  he  asks,  jealously. 

"Ah,  you  were  .lo  friend  of  mine  in  those  days. 
Do  not  deny  it — I  have  an  excellent  memory  for  the 
few  who  cared  for  me  in  that  desolate  time.     And  you 


*'  CAURIEI)    BY    STOllM." 


297 


mma? 

->ai'lor, 

ore  or 

read- 


>wning 
As  for 
always 
ut  the 
lay  not 

on  that 
in  I'rotn 
;.  You 
Lbing,  I 

LI  novel- 
u  know 

yes  rest 
,  No, 
[was  not 
i<rs  back 
it  out  of 


an( 


•ev,  anc 


i 


\v 


hen  I 


»alously. 
(lavs. 


se 


for  the 
aid  you 


were  not  amon^  tliom.     W!iy  shotiM  you  have  been? 
I  was  only  an  ugly  and  uncouth  creature,  rude  in  man- 
ner, and  look,  and  speech.     I  was  not  of  your  world 
then.    I  ara  not  now.    No,  the  gap  is  not  bridged  over 
yet.     Do  you  think  I  do  not  know  it  V — do  you  think 
I  do  not  know  it  never  can  be?     I  am  a  singer,  I  am 
popular,  I   make    money,  if   that    is    all — fasiiionable 
people  like  ]Mrs.  Van  llensselatr  ask  me  to  their  par- 
ties because  I  sing  and  amuse  their  guests.     But  1  am 
nameless,  homeless,  a  vagabond,  and  a  wanderer.  And 
to  know  icho  I  am  is  the  one  unsatisfied  desire,  the  one 
ceaseless  longing  of  my  heart.     Stn'ely  I  must  have  a 
name — surely  m  some  veins  the  same  bh)od  must  ilow. 
Tiiere  were  the  Sleafords — I  do  not  know  to  this  day 
whether  they  were  related  to  me  or  not." 

"'A  little  more  thaji  kin,  and  less  than  kind,"* 
Livingston  quotes.  "  What  does  it  matter,  Joanna? 
You  have  hosts  of  fi'iends  who  love  you  for  yourself. 
You  have  made  a  name  the  world  honors.  Why 
regret  what  you  may  be  better  without  knowing?" 

Iler  work  has  dropped,  her  hands  clasp  her  knees 
as  she  leans  forward,  in  the  old  fashion  he  remembers; 
her  great  eyes  look  dreamy,  and  wistful,  and  far 
off. 

"I  would  give  half  my  life  to  know.  I  will  never 
rest  until  I  know.  The  Sleafords  I  have  lost  sight 
of;  even  Lora  had  left,  and  gone  West  before  I  had 
reached  Brightbrook.  For  the  boys — it  is  doubtful  if 
they  could  tell  me  anything,  even  if  I  found  them. 
The  secret  of  my  life  Giles  Sleaford  alone  held,  and 
he  carried  it  with  him  into  the  grave.  I  would  give 
all  I  possess  to  know.  You  cannot  understand  this — 
you  who  have  always  had  name,  and  home,  and  re- 
•    13* 


..  1 


."  '■  i 


)     ! 


!l 


■'  '>  r'T' 


298 


"  CAIMIIKD     BY    STOini." 


\.i     'A 


\t 


W     :i 


lations^  .and  lovo — this  ceaseless  lieart-liungor  for  soino 
one  to  mIiomi  wo  hc.lonfj.  Ah,  well  !  it  is  folly  to  sigh 
over  the  iiicn'itable.  ]iiit  all  the  saine,  it  leaves  me 
to-day  what  I  was  six  years  ago,  and  yon — you  had 
ranch  better  be  wise,  and  go  to  C^anada,  and  shoot 
moose  !  'J'he  j)ast  weeks  have  been  pleasant — yes — 
but  they  are  over.  Say  good-by  to-niorroN\',  and  do 
not  come  to  Newport." 

"  I  shall  never  !)c  wise  if  that  is  wisdom,"  he  says, 
coolly.  "  I  am  always  happii-st  when  with  you.  T^et 
me  be  hap[)y  in  my  o\vn  way.  I  shall  make  that 
filial  visit,  of  course — that  cannot  be  ])ostponed — 
but  I  shall  return  and  spend  my  summer  at  New- 
port." 

She  smiles  and  says  no  more.  She  resumes  lier 
work,  and  lie  ins  Jirowning.  If  Livingston  cannot 
understand  her,  neither  can  she  understand  herself. 
All  her  life  he  has  been  in  her  ey(!S  something  dif- 
fcent  from  other  men.  In  her  ignorant  youth  he 
was  the  "Prince  Charming  "of  her  fairytales.  In 
her  dreary  girlhood  a  slisiht,  a  word  from  him  could 
stab  her  as  no  other  had  power  to  stab.  She  does  not 
understand  why  this  should  be — she  only  knoM  s  it  is 
so.  1'hei'e  is  no  reason  why  she  should  care  for  him. 
There  are  a  hundi-ed  good  and  sound  ones  why  she 
should  not.  The  fact  remains — she  does  care  for 
him;  she  will  care  for  him  possibly  to  her  life's  end! 

That  night  is  Miss  Wild's  last  appearance  for  the 
season,  and  that  night  the  house  is  thronged  with  her 
adm'rers  and  friends.  That  night  she  is  brilliant  as 
she  has  never  been  brilliant  before,  as  she  never  will 
be  again,  for  it  is  the  very  last  time  she  will  ever  face 
an  audience  !     But  thouo;h  she  does  not  know  it,  some 


I 


"  CAliniKD    BY    STORM." 


299 


thrillcMl,  excMtod  fot'liiiL!^  soikIs  a  stromningj  light  into 
her  eyes,  a  deep  llusl>  inlo  her  too-pale  ehcoks,  a  ringing 
s\ve(^tiiess  and  jM)\vcr  into  Ik.t  voice. 

She  sings  as  she  has  never  snng  before.  She  bears 
lier  andienee  away — she  is  rcealled  ar^ain  and  again, 
flowers  are  flung  to  her,  the  theater  rings  with  excited 
applause.  Foremost — wholly  carried  away,  is  Frank 
Livingston.  Always  excital)le,  the  success  of  to-night 
turns  his  liead.  She  is  bewitching- -she  is  a  very 
queen  of  song — she  is  radiant  in  her  triuni})h — she 
is  irresistible  !  Head  and  heart  are  in  a  tumult — this 
is  love,  and  he  will  win  her — this  bevv'ilderin<jc  woman, 
who  turns  the  brains  of  all  men  ! 

It  is  all  over — it  has  been  an  ovation — and  they 
are  in  her  rooms — Ilerr  ICricson  and  niadame  his  wife, 
the  Italian  baritone,  and  Frank.  In  her  trailing  silks 
and  laces,  with  saj)phire  ornaments,  she  looks  abso- 
lutely handsome — she  looks  like  a  gO(bless  in  Living- 
ston's (bizzled  eyes.  They  are  alone  in  one  of  the  softly 
lit  rooms — her  piano  stands  oj)en,  but  it  is  he  who 
strikes  the  silvery  chords,  looking  up  with  eyes  that 
flash  in  her  smiling  face.  It  is  he  who  sin.'xs,  in  an  ex- 
cited,  exultant  voice,  the  little  song  he  purloined,  the 
song  he  first  heard  her  sing  at  Mrs.  Van  llensselaer's 
party  : 

*'  Do  you  tlihik  I  am  ever  Avithout  you  ? 

Ever  lose  for  an  instant  your  face, 
Or  the  spell  tliat  brcMthes  alway  al)out  you, 

Of  your  subtil'j,  incirable  grace  ? 
Why,  even  to-ni^lit.  ptit  away,  d(!ar. 

From  the  liglit  of  your  eyes  tiiough  I  stand, 
I  feel  as  I  linu'cr  and  i)ray,  dear, 

Tiie  touch  of  your  hand. 

"Ah,  mc!  for  a  word  that  could  move  you 
Like  a  whisper  of  magical  art! 


11 

'i-if 


-I- 


H 


I. 


*  ; 


I: 


i  i 


r'f: 


i! 


I 


300  "  CARRIED    BY    STORM.' ' 

I  love  you !  I  love  you !  I  love  you ! 

There  is  no  other  word  in  my  heart. 
Will  your  eyes,  that  arc  loviniif,  still  love  me  ? 

Will  your  heart,  once  so  tender,  forgive  ? 
Ah!  darlinj?,  stoo))  down  from  above  mo 

And  tell  me  to  live." 

"  I  love  yon  !  1  love  you  !  I  love  yon  !  "  he  cries, 
and  rising,  takes  both  her  hands  in  liis  feverish  clasp. 
"Joanna,  I  love  you  !  I  always  liave  from  the  first,  I 
think,  but  to-night  you  have  carried  my  heart  by 
storm  !  " 

She  does  not  speak.  TTis  flushed  face,  glowing 
eyes,  and  ringing  voice,  hardly  lowered  as  he  si)eaks 
the  passionate  words,  tell  her  of  the  wild  excitement 
within. 

"  My  darling,  stoop  down  from  above  me  and  tell 
rae  to  live!"  he  repeats;  "do  you  hear,  Joanna? 
— I  love  you  !  I  tell  you,  you  have  carried  my  heart 
as  you  do  your  audience,  by  storm  !  " 

She  stands  silent.  But  the  hands  he  clasps  are  not 
withdrawn  ;  the  sweet,  dark,  tender  eyes  do  not  droop 
— they  are  fixed  on  his  face. 

"Silence  is  consent!"  he  gayly  cries.  He  draws 
a  ring  off  his  little  finger,  and  slips  it  on  one  of  hers. 
"  I  bind  you  with  this,"  he  says,  "for  to-night,  to- 
morrow I  will  bring  you  a  better." 

He  tries  to  clasp  her,  but  she  draws  suddenly 
back. 

"  Oh,  do  not !  "  she  exclaims,  ilraost  in  a  voice  of 
pain. 

They  are  the  first  words  she  has  spoken,  and  there 
is  a  tone  akin  to  terror  in  them.  But  she  smiles  a 
moment  after  and  looks  down  at  the  ring. 


Ji  11 


*'  LITTLE    LEO." 


301 


"  Yoii  are  all  my  own,"  he  says  ;  "  I  love  you  and 
I  claim  you.  Wear  that  until  to-morrow.  3ly  dar- 
ling, you  sang  and  looked  like  an  angel  to-night." 

"  Supper  ish  waiting,"  says  the  stolid  German  voice 
of  stout  Madame  Erieson  ;  "  you  had  hetter  come." 

They  go,  and  Livingston  quenches  his  fever  and 
excitement  in  iced  chamj)agne. 

Somewhere  in  the  small  hours  the  little  party 
breaks  up,  and  he  goes  home  through  the  summer 
moonlight  full  of  triumph  and  exultation,  still  hum- 
ming softly  to  himself  the  haunting  words  of  the 
song. 

But  long  after  he  is  asleep,  long  after  she  is  for- 
gotten, even  in  his  dreams,  Joanna  sits  in  her  room, 
and  watches  the  slender  yellow  July  morn  lift  itself 
over  the  black,  silent  streets,  full  of  troubled  pain  and 
unrest. 

"  Carried  by  storm, ^'  she  repeats  to  herself  ;  "  car- 
ried his  heart  by  storm  !  Ah  !  Frank  Livingston,  h  it 
your  heart,  your  fancy,  your  excitable  imagination — 
what  ?  But  whatever  it  is,  my  love — my  love,  I  love 
you  !  " 


<•■, 


^4 


*•» 


CHAPTER    V 


"little   LEO." 


TGIIT  brings  counsel,"  says  the  adage,  and 
"colors  seen  by  candle-light  do  not  look 
the  same  by  day,"  says  the  poet.     Both 
are  exceedingly  true.      Livingston  risea 
next  morning,  and  his  first  thought,  as  he  recalls  all 


:     I 


■',      f 


■;  ! 


li' 


i    'ii 


"  LITTLE    LEO." 


tli.it  paasotl  lust  niijflit,  is  one  of  simple,  uttt-r,  intense 
consternation.  Carried  away  by  the  excitement  of 
the  moment,  by  the  chai'in  of  her  eyes,  her  voice,  t!io 
appearance  of  the  crowd,  he  has  asked  Sleafoi'd's 
Joanna  to  be  his  wife.  The  memory  absolntely  stuns 
liim.  All  the  fever  of  his  throbbing  j)ulses  is  allayed 
now,  and  he  knows  he  no  more  is  in  love  with  her  than 
lie  was  with  his  cousin,  Olga.  Once  again,  as  often 
l)efore,  his  heated,  hot-headed  recklessness  has  ])Iayed 
him  false,  his  fickle  fancy  led  him  astray,  lie  has 
asked  the  last  woman  in  the  world  he  should  have 
aske<l  to  be  his  wife,  and  she  has  not  said  no.  She 
has  said  nothing,  he  I'cmembers  that  now  ;  but  in  these 
cases  saying  nothing  is  equivalent  to  saying  yes. 

AVell,  his  fate  is  fixed — he  must  be  true  to  her  he 
has  asked  ;  she  must  never  know  of  this  revulsion  of 
feeling — Sleaford's  Joanna  must  be  his  wife.  It  is 
thus  slie  foi'ces  herself  on  his  imagination — no  lontjer 
as  Jenny  V>^ild,  the  singer,  fair  and  stately,  but  wild, 
ragged,  devil-may-care — she  rises  persistently  before 
him.  lie  does  all  he  can  to  banish  the  memory — in 
vain.  The  image  of  the  little  barefoot  tatterdemalion, 
the  drudge  of  Sleaford's,  is  the  only  image  rebellious 
recollection  will  bring  up.  And  last  night  he  told  her 
be  loved  her. 

It  is  with  a  very  gloomy  face,  a  very  impaired 
app^'tite,  Mr.  Livingston  sits  down  to  his  breakfast. 
He  is  not  much  of  a  hero,  this  fickle  Frank — less  of  a 
hero  than  usual,  even  at  this  crisis  of  his  life.  But  un- 
happily— or  the  reverse — the  world  is  not  made  up  of 
lieroes,  and  Livingston  goes  with  the  majority.  What 
wUl  his  mother  say,  his  fretful,  ambitious,  fastidious 
mother?     What  will  the  Ventnors  say?     What  will 


"  LITTLE    LEO." 


303 


n tense 
3nt   of 

',  tlio 
iford'.s 

stuns 
lliiyc'd 
r  than 

often 
phiyed 
le   has 

I  l\avo 
Sho 

II  tliese 

her  lie 
sion  of 
It  is 
•  h)nger 
It  wiUl, 

before 
ory — in 
malion, 
bellious 
Lokl  her 

m  paired 
eakfast. 
less  of  a 
But  un- 
le  up  of 
What 
LStidious 
hat  will 


Olga? — 0]ga,  wlio  has  always  especially  disliked  and 
distrusteil  Joanna — Olga,  who  has  jiride  of  birdi 
enough  for  a  royal  princess.  He  can  see  the  wonder, 
the  incredulity,  the  scorn  of  the  blue,  chill  eves. 

ijut  it  is  too  late  for  all  such  thoughts,  what  is 
done  cannot  be  undone,  he  has  chosen  and  must  abide 
by  his  choice.  He  must  kee{>  faith  with  her,  and  she 
deserves  a  much  better  man.  She  shall  never  suspect 
that  he  regrets.  He  will  inform  his  mother — the 
sooner  the  better  ;  he  will  accept  her  wrath  and  her 
reproaches,  he  will  marry  Joanna  out  of  hand,  and 
hurry  her  away  with  him  to  Italy.  That  will  look 
like  tliglit,  and  flight  will  look  like  cowardice,  but  ho 
has  not  much  triist  in  his  own  moral  courage.  In 
Italy  they  can  live  as  artists  live — he  certainly  has 
nothing  very  brilliant  to  offer  his  bride — hoi^will  cast 
oil  the  idleness  of  a  life-time,  and  go  to  work  with  a 
will.  Of  course,  Joanna  must  go  on  the  stage  no 
more  ;  poor  he  may  be,  but  not  so  poor  as  to  compel 
his  wife  to  work  for  her  living, 

"  In  Rome  I  can  keep  her  on  black  bread  and 
melon  rinds!"  he  says,  with  a  rather  grim  laugh, 
"  until  fame  and  fortune  find  me  out.  She  is  the  sort 
of  woman,  I  think,  to  whom  love  will  swx»eten  even 
black  bread  and  melons.  Though  why  she  sliouldcare 
for  me  Heaven  knows  !  She  is  worth  a  million  such 
weak-minded,  vacillating  fools  as  I  am  !  '' 

He  takes  his  bat,  and  tries  to  clear  the  cloud  from 
his  brovv,  and  to  look  like  his  natural  self,  as  he  hurries 
through  the  sunlit,  hot,  hot,  streets,  to  Joanna's  cool, 
green-shaded,  up-town  bower.  He  is  not  very  success- 
ful perhaps,  or  her  eyes  are  not  easily  baftled,  for  in 
one  long,   grave,   steadfast   glance    she   reads  all    his 


t 


i\ 


304 


'*  LITTLE    LEO." 


I   1,4 


f'.i 


I  i     ) '.' 


trouble  in  his  tt'Il-t;ilo  f.ioo,  then  turns  slowly  away. 
Tlio  rooms  arc  littered  with  trunks,  bags,  boxes,  and 
all  the  ))arai»hertialia  of  a  flitting. 

"You  And  me  in  the  midst  of  my  oxodus,"  sho 
says,  dropping  his  hand,  af)d  going  on  with  lier  work. 
"  I  always  oversee  my  packing  myself.  So  many 
things  are  sure  to  be  left  behind.  Find  a  seat  if  you 
can,  although  it  is  hardly  worth  while  to  ask  you.  h\ 
ten  minutes  we  start." 

Sh(!  is  putting  on  her  hat,  and  twisting  a  gray  tissue 
vail  arou!Ml  it,  before  the  glass,  as  she  s))eaks.  Except 
that  first  earnest,  searching  look,  she  has  not  turned  to 
him  once,  although  there  is  no  slightest  change  in  her 
pleasant  friendly  manner. 

"Joanna!"  he  begins,  impetuously,  a  touch  of 
remorse  stinging  him,  "  you  must  still  wear  the  ring  I 
gave  you  last  night.  I  protest,  I  forgot  until  this  mo- 
ment all  about  the  other." 

lie  does  not  think  of  all  that  his  words  imply.  It 
is  early  hours  for  a  lover  to  forget.  She  says  nothijig 
— her  white  slender  hands  are  uplifted,  arranging  the 
hat.     He  glances  at  them,  and  sees  no  ring." 

"  What  !"  he  says,  "  you  have  taken  it  of!  already  ?" 

"  Your  ring  ?"  she  says,  quietly.  "  Oh,  yes,  it  was 
too  large.  Take  it  back,  wear  it  again — pray  do  ;  it 
is  of  no  use  to  me.  I  may  lose  it,  carrying  it  about, 
and  indeed  I  cannot  wear  it.  It  is  greatly  too  large 
for  anything  but  ray  thumb." 

She  laughs,  and  holds  it  out  to  him.  He  can  do 
nothing  but  take  it. 

"  Very  well,  as  you  say,  it  must  be  too  large  ;  I  will 
send  you  a  more  suitable  one  before  the  week  is  out. 


away. 

s,  and 


s,"   sho 

•  work. 

niatiy 

if  you 

jii.     In 

y  tissue 
Except 
rued  to 
J  in  her 

>uch    of 

e  ring  I 

his  ino- 

ply.     It 
nothing 


•1 


ng  the 


eady?" 
it  was 
do  ;  it 
about, 

30  large 

3  can  do 

;  I  will 
is  out. 


"  LITTLK    LKO." 


805 


I,  loo,  am  ofT  this  morning,  .Toiinr.a,  to  hunt  up  my 
missing  n.  of  her,  and  tell  licr  ;ill  !" 

SIh!  turns  a  little  pale,  hut  her  eye.s  are  fixed  on  tho 
glove  slii;  is  hut  toning. 

"  Pray  do  not,"  siie  says,  onriKisfly.  "  Oh,  pray  do 
not — just  3'et.  Give  mo  time,  give  yourself  time. 
You  are  not  sure  of  vourself — wait,  wait  !  There  is 
no  hurry.  Truly,  truly  Frank,  I  would  much  rather 
you  did  not.  ]*romise  me  you  will  not  speak  to  your 
mother." 

"  Carri.'ige  is  waiting,  Jenny,  my  dear,"  says  Pro- 
fessor Kricson,  jxipping  in  ins  l)ald  head,  "  ami  not  a 
second  to  lose.  CJood-moiMiing,  Mr.  I^ivingston.  Time 
and  trains,  you  kt)ow,  wait  not  for  any  man." 

"  Promise,"  she  exclaims,  looking  at  him  with  those 
dark,  intense,  serious  eyes. 

But  he  only  smiles  and  clasps  her  gloved    hands. 

"  I  will  write  to  you,"  he  says,  "and  send  you  that 
ring.  You  will  wear  it,  will  you  not?  I  promise  you 
it  shall  he  pretty,  and  not  too  large.  Atid  do  not  let 
your  countless  admirers  nor  the  dissipations  of  New- 
port make  you  forget  during  my  enforced  absence.  I 
shall  not  be  a  day  longer  than  I  can  help,  and  I  shall 
have  much  to  say  to  you  of  my — of  our  future  plans, 
when  next  we  meet." 

Nothing  more  is  said.  He  places  her  in  the  car- 
riage beside  Madame  Ericson,  and  leans  forward  to 
talk  until  it  starts.  It  has  not  been  a  very  lover-like 
*  meeting  or  parting,  and  he  notices  that  Joanna  is  very 
j)ale  as  she  leans  out  with  a  smile  to  wave  her  hand  in 
adieu.  Then  they  were  cuL  of  sight,  and  he  is  thought- 
fully stalking  along  to  the  depot  to  take  the  train  to 
his  penitential  destination. 


(^ 


*- 


800 


"  MTTI.K    LKO." 


It.  is  ;i  loJiuj,  liol,  <ln>^ly,  <liMa«jfr(U';il>li;  rldo.  Living* 
st'iii  Hits  ill  tlic  MMokiiiuj-car,  ;im<1  ])I;iy.s  tMu^liro,  and 
pets  llirou'jli  niilitniti'd  cin^arM  and  newspapers,  and  tlio 
gi'imy  hours  as  licsl,  lie  may. 

'J'wHit^Iil.  is  i'nl!iii%'',  misty  and  bliio,  as  ho  reaches 
liis  joiirrjey'n  end,  and,  jj^Iad  to  streteli  iiis  letjs  a  bit, 
lie  starts  oir  briskly  to  walk  to  a  iiolel.  The  streets 
are  (crowded;  the  lamps  are  lit,  and,  twinkle  throULlli 
the  Hummery  gloamiiiLi'.  Sinhb'uly  there  is  a  eoin- 
motion,  a  shout iiiLj,  a  sealteriiii^^  and  sereaminjLj  of  tho 
crowd.  A  pair  of  hoi'ses  have  taken  fright  at  some- 
ihiniL!^,  and  started  at  a  furious  ))aco  alonj^  the  streets. 
U'here  is  a  rnshim^  and  shrieking  of  women — tho 
runaways  (bish  acM'oss  the  sidewalk,  upsetting  every- 
tliing  and  everybody,  and  lashing  out  at  all  obstacles. 
Sto|)  them  !  stop  them  !  shout  a  scores  of  hoarse  voices. 
They  ilash  past  Livingston  like  a  black  whirlwind, 
and  he  lea])s  aside  barely  in  time.  A  young  girl  beside 
liim  is  l((ss  fortunate.  The  carrIage-|)ole  strikes  her, 
and  slu^  is  ilung  heavily  to  the  ground,  directly  at  liia 
feet.  'IMie  excited  crowd  dash  by,  lieedless  of  the 
prostrate  figure,  and  Livingston,  8t()o|)ing  down,  lifts 
her  in  his  arms,  and  Hnds  her  insensible,  and  bleeding 
freely  from  a  cut  in  the  head. 

This  is  a  situation  !  lie  glances  about  in  con- 
sternation, and  sees  near  the  glowing  globes  of  a 
druggist's.  To  hurry  thither,  to  summon  assistance, 
to  place  her  in  a  chair,  and  support  her  there  wliilo 
the  man  of  drugs  examines  her  wounds,  is  but  tho  work 
of  a  moment. 

"A  very  nasty  little  cut,"  the  druggist  says,  "and 
unpleasantly  close  to  the  temple.  Still,  she  is  not 
killed,  and    this  wound  will  not  amount  to  much  if 


fr  1 

il 


*'  L  ITT  Lie    LKO. 


n 


807 


\il 


s,  "  and 


she  li.is  rGUi'ivGil  no  other  hurt.  Knocked  down  by 
the  ('.uriaufc-polc,  you  suy  ?  Poor  younij  lady  !  Hold 
up  licr  lioad,  sir,  if  you  ploaso;  I  will  st(»p  tlio 
bku'diinj^,  and  bind  up  the  cut  wifli  a  strip  of 
plaster." 

lilviuG'ston  obcvs.  lie  looks  for  the  first  tinio 
closely  at  the  drooplii<;  face  before  him,  and  liiKls 
liis  interest  and  synipathy  considerably  heif^hti'iHMl 
V>y  the  fact  that  it  is  an  excee<liML,'ly  pretty  face,  tlespito 
l)loo(l-stainM  and  pallor.  She  is  a  very  yoinii^  creature, 
not  more  than  sixteen  to  look  at,  with  a  dusk,  sweet 
face,  and  quantities  of  wavy  dark  hair.  The  loui^ 
lashes  rest  on  ivoi'y-pale  cheeks.  With  jjjentle  touch 
the  druiji^ist  puts  aside  the  loosened  braids  of  hair,  to 
bind  up  the  wound.  Two  lines  he  has  read  somewhere 
occur  to  Frank's  memory: 

"  Love,  if  thy  trcssps  bo  so  dark, 
IIuvv  dark  tlioso  liiddeu  eyes  nmst  be!" 

"A  pretty  little  soul,"  he  ihinks.  "I  wonder  who 
she  is,  and  what  we  are  to  do  with  her  next  ?" 

Even  as  he  thinks  it,  there  is  a  Ibitter  of  the  droop- 
ing lids,  a  quiver  through  all  the  slight  frame,  and 
then  slowly  two  dark,  deep  eyes  unclose  and  look  up 
in  bewilderment  into  the  strange  faces  bending  over 
her — the  faces  of  men. 

"Oh  !  what  is  it?"  she  says,  shrinkingly.     "Where 

ami?    What  has  ha))pened  ?    My  head "    She])uts 

up  her  hand  in  a  frightened  sort  of  way,  and  her  lips 
begin  to  quiver  like  a  child's.  "  Oh  !  what  is  it?"  sho 
says  again. 

"  You  were  knocked  down  by  a  runaway  horse — do 
you  not  remember?"    Livingston  says,  gently.  "  Your 


Ih 


f 


: 
t 

1 

( .1 

aT^ 


M.iriiTii  I'll    I  '"11" 


Ji 


308 


*'  LITTLE    LEO." 


head  is  hurt  a  little,  but  not  much,  I  hope.  Do  you 
feel  Imrt  anywhere  else?" 

Slie  looks  at  hiin — dark,  solemn,  childish  eyes  they 
are — and  her  lips  quiver  still. 

"I — I  don't  know.  Oh  !  let  me  go  home,  please  I 
I  must  go  home  !"  She  essays  to  rise,  then  falls  back, 
with  a  liitle  sob  of  pain.  "  My  foot  hurts  me,"  she 
says,  sobbing  outright;  "but,  oh,  please,  I  want  to  go 
home  !" 

8he  is  indeed  like  a  child.  Livingston  takes  her 
hand  in  both  his,  and  tries  to  soothe  her  as  he  might 
a  child. 

"  You  shall  go  home  ;  do  not  be  distressed,  do  not 
be  afraid.  I  am  sure  you  are  not  much  hurt.  I  will 
take  you  home.  Stay  here,  while  I  go  and  get  a  car- 
riage.    I  will  not  be  a  moment." 

She  looks  up  at  him  again,  and  to  his  utter  amaze 
says  this  : 

"  I  know  you.     You  are  Frank  Livingston  !" 

"Good  Heaven  !"  the  young  man  exclaims, stunned 
by  this  unex[)ected  speech,  "and  who  are  you  ?" 

Instead  of  answering,  she  droops  back  in  her  chair, 
so  white,  so  death-like,  that  the  druggist  springs  over 
his  counter  for  a  restorative. 

"  Never  mhid  asking  Iier  questions  now,"  he  says. 

"  Do  you  not  see  she  is  fainting?   Go  for  tiie  carriage, 

and  get  her  home  as  quick  as  you  can.     She  ought  to 

be  put  to  bed,  and  attended  to  at  once.     She  has  had 

'  a  severe  shock." 

Livingston  obeys.  In  a  moment  he  is  out  of  the 
store — almost  in  another  he  is  back  with  a  cab. 

"  She  is  better  again,"  tl-o  shopman  says.  "  Take 
her  home  at  once.     It  is  at  37  Pine  street,  she  says — a 


)o  you 

2s  they 

please  ! 
s  l)ack, 
0,"  she 
t  to  go 


<es  hor 
J  might 


,  do  not 

I  will 

!t  a  car- 

L'  amaze 

!" 
stunned 

(i*  cliair, 
)gs  over 

he  says, 
arriage, 
)a<A\t  to 
lias  had 

t  of  the 

"  Take 
says — a 


"  LITTLE    LEO." 


309 


mile  off  or  more.  Tell  the  man  to  drive  very  slowly, 
and  as  easy  as  he  can.  Iler  ankle  is  hurt,  I  think.  You 
will  have  to  carry  her  to  the  carriage," 

'J'his  is  neither  diflicnlt  nor  unjdeasant.  He  lifts 
the  light,  youthful  figure  in  his  arms,  and  carries  iier 
with  infinite  gentleness  and  care,  and  deposits  her  on 
the  back  seat.  Then  he  gets  in  opposite  her,  gives  the 
cabman  the  address,  and  thev  are  driven  slowly  throutjh 
the  latnp-lit  city  streets,  lie  looks  at  her  in  intense 
curiosity,  as  she  sits  before  him,  her  head  drooping 
against  the  back,  her  eyes  closed,  her  face  drawn  into 
an  expression  of  silent  pain.  He  can  ask  her  nothing 
now.  She  looks  almost  ready  to  faint  away  for  a  third 
time. 

"  Poor  little  soul  !"  he  thinks,  exceedingly  sorry  for 
her — "poor  little  pretty  child.  I  wonder  who  she  is, 
and  how  she  comes  to  know  me?" 

But  conjecture  is  useless  ;  he  cannot  place  her. 
Lonix  before  thev  reach  37  Pine  street,  what  he  has 
feared  comes  to  pass.  She  droops  forward,  and  faints 
dead  away  from  sheer  exhaustion  and  pain. 

Livingston  will  never  forget  that  drive  ;  it  is  al- 
ways twilight,  lit  with  yellow  stars  of  light,  and  the 
slender  fiijure  Ivinij  inert  and  senseless  in  his  arms. 

They  reach  their  destination  at  last — a  cottage  set 
in  a  prettj'  garden.  A  lady  comes  hurriedly  out  of  the 
door  as  they  draw  up.  There  is  still  light  enough  to 
see  her  face  plainly — a  pale,  handsome  face — and 
Frank  Livingston  utters  a  cry. 

"  Good  Heaven  !"  he  exclaims,  for  the  second  time, 
"Mrs.  Abbott,  is  it  really  you  ?" 

His  cry  is  echoed,  and  it  is  her  only  reply,  for  she 
catches  sight  cf  the  drooping  figure  in  the  carriage. 


!H    1; 


i. 


■iji 


LITTLE    LEO. 


"  ]\[y  Loo  !  n»y  Leo  !"  she  cries  out,  "oh,  what  is 
this  ?  What  has  happened  ?  Oh,  great  Heaven,  is  she 
dead  V" 

"  INIy  dear  ]Mrs.  Abbott,  no,  only  liiirt  a  little,  and 
unconscious  just  at  pi'esent  from  tlie  shock.  Do  nt)t 
alarm  yourself — indeed  there  is  no  need.  Let  me  carry 
lier  in  and  send  for  a  doctor  at  once.  I  am  sure  she  is 
not  seriously  hurt.  I  will  tell  you  all  about  it  in  a 
moment." 

lie  carries  her  into  the  parlor,  and  lays  her  on  a 
sofa.  In  a  moment  JNIrs.  Abbott  has  recovered  the 
self-repressed  calm  habitual  to  her.  She  give  a  few 
hurried  direotions  to  the  driver,  and  then  bends  over 
her  pale  little  daughter. 

"  I  have  sent  for  my  son,"  she  says.  "  I  chance  to 
know  where  he  is.  Frank  Livingston,  is  this  really 
you?"  She  holds  out  one  slim,  transparent  hand,  and 
looks  wonderingly  in  his  face.  ''"Tell  me  all  about  it, 
and  how  you  come  to  be  with  my  little  Leo  like  this." 

"And  it  is  Leo — little  Leo  V"  he  says,  gazing  down 
at  the  still  white  face,  "dear  little  Leo,  and  I  did  not 
know  her.  What  a  stupid  dolt  I  grow.  She  recog- 
nized me  at  once.  Accident  has  been  good  to  me  to- 
day, since  it  has  thrown  me  in  the  way  of  the  friends 
I  have  been  longing  for  the  past  five  years  to  meet." 

He  tells  her  what  has  liappened  in  rapid  words,  and 
as  he  ends,  a  latch-ke3''  opens  the  hall-door,  and  a 
young  man  hurriedly  enters. 

"An  accident?"  he  says,  in  alarm.  "Leo  hurt? 
Mother,  what  is  this  ?  " 

It  is  Geoffrey  Lamar.  He  kneels  beside  his  still  in- 
sensible sister,  without  a  erlance  at  the 


i  sister,  without  a  gh 
with  alarm,  and  takes  her  wrist. 


ranger,  palo 


i:l 


"  LITTLK    LEO." 


311 


^vhat  19 
I,  is  she 

tie,  and 

Do  not 

le  carry 

ro  she  is 

it  in  a 

ler  on  a 
M't'd  tlie 
e  a  few 
nds  over 

hance  to 
lis  really 
[ind,  and 
about  it, 
ike  this." 
ing  down 

did  not 
le  recog- 
o  me  to- 
o  friends 

meet." 
ords,  and 
)r,  and   a 


jeo 


hurt  ? 


lis  still  in- 
iiger,  palo 


"  Geoffrey,  look  here,"  his  mother  says,  "  do  you  not 
recognize  j'onr  friend  ?  " 

"^Frank  ! " 

He  springs  to  his  feet  and  holds  out  both  hands. 

"  Dear  old  Geoff  !  " 

And  then  there  is  a  long,  strong,  silent  clasp,  a 
long,  glad,  affectionate  gaze.  Then  Geoffrey  returnis  to 
Leo. 

"  What  is  this?"  he  asks  again.  "  What  has  hap- 
pened to  Leo  ?  " 

Livingston  repeats  his  story,  and  in  a  moment  Dr. 
Lamar  is  in  action.  He  carries  his  sister  up  to  her 
room,  followed  by  his  mother,  while  Frank  sits  below 
and  anxiously  waits.  He  looks  out  across  the  darken- 
ing flower-beds  to  the  starry  sky  and  thinks  how 
strangely,  after  all  these  years,  he  has  found  his  friends. 
Half  an  hour  passes  before  Geoffrey  returns. 

"  Well  ?  "  Frank  anxiously  says. 

"  It  is  not  particular'y  well,  still,  it  might  have  been 
worse.  The  shock  is  more  to  be  apprehended  thari  the 
liurts — she  is  a  tender  little  blossom,  our  j)oor  Leo. 
She  has  injured  lier  ankle,  in  addition  to  the  cut  in  her 
liead.  How  fortunate  you  chanced  to  be  on  the  spot. 
Thank  you,  Frank,  for  helping  my  little  sister." 

He  holds  out  his  hand,  all  the  love  his  heart  holds 
for  that  little  sister  shining  in  his  eyes.  Livingston 
takes  it,  and  gazes  at  him.  What  a  distinguished- 
looking  fellow  he  is,  he  thinks,  how  gallant  a  gentleman 
he  looks,  how  thoroughbred,  how  like  his  mother  in  that 
erect  and  stately  poise  of  the  head,  that  clear,  steady 
glance  of  the  eye. 

"  You  have  not  changed  in  the  least,  Frank,"  Geoffrey 
says.     "  I  would  have  known  you  anywhere." 


I 


:,.:.  f 


312 


"  JOAN    BENNETT." 


"  You  have  changed,  old  fellow,"  Frank  returns, 
"but  net  for  the  worse.  And  so  you  liave  been  liere 
all  the  time,  our  next-door  nciglil^or  almost,  while  I 
have  been  looking  for  you  high  and  low.  What  |)a})er 
walls  hold  us  asunder  !  What  are  you  about?  Prac- 
ticing your  profession  ?  " 

"As  you  see,  and  after  an  up-hill  struggle  enough, 
conquering  fate  at  last,  I  am  happy  to  say.  And  now 
that  you  have  found  us,  we  mean  to  keep  you  for  a 
while,"  Dr.  Lamar  says,  gayly.  "So  make  up  your 
mind  to  stav  until  further  notice.  Our  mansion  is  not 
particularly  commodious,  as  you  may  see,  but  we  al- 
ways manage  to  iiave  a  spare  room  for  a  friend.  And 
of  all  the  friends  of  the  old  time,  my  dear  fellow,  you 
know  not  one  can  be  more  heartily  welcome  than  your- 
self." 

There  is  little  pressing  needed.  Frank  does  object, 
but  those  objections  are  easily  overruled.  It  puts  off 
the  evil  hour  of  maternal  tears  and  reproaches,  and 
that  is  something.  So  he  stavs,  and  his  secret  will  be 
bis  secret  for  a  few  days  longer,  at  least. 


♦♦» 


CHAPTER    VI. 


"jOAN   BENNETT." 


S^OANNA  sits  in  almost  total  silence  during 
the  short  drive  to  the  depot.     Tho  look  in 
Livingston's   eyes    haunts    her^  the  forced 
gayety  of  his  tone  has  struck  on  lier  heart 
like  a  blow.     She  has  known  it  will  be  there  sometime, 


urns, 
here 
hilo  I 
])aper 
Prao- 

lougli, 
lI  now 

for  a 
)  your 
1  is  not 

we  al- 
.  And 
)\v,  you 
,n  your- 

object, 
)UtS  off 
OS,  and 
will  be 


(( 


JOAN   BENNETT. 


>) 


313 


during 
look  in 
le  forced 
[er  heart 
)metinie, 


but  not  so  soon,  not  the  very  morning  after  his  im- 
pulsive declaration. 

"  Carried  by  storm."  Ah,  but  not  held  long. 
More  than  he  has  yet  felt  himself  she  has  read  in  his 
face — pain,  regret,  the  resolution  to  make  the  best  at 
all  cost  of  the  most  fatal  words  of  his  life. 

1^'ofessor  Ericson  chatters  like  a  German  magpie  ; 
hickily,  like  the  magpie,  he  waits  for  no  answer. 
They  reach  tiie  station  barely  in  time  to  get  tickets, 
checks,  and  seats,  and  then  are  off  through  the  jid)i- 
lant  sunshine  of  the  brilliant  summer  morniuL!:.  Mad.imc 
Ericson  coniposes  herself  by  a  shady  window  v\ith  a 
German  novel  ;  the  professor  goes  off  to  the  smoking 
car,  and  Joanna  is  left  undisturbed  to  gaze  at  the  fly- 
ing landscape,  and  muse  over  lovers  who  propose  in 
haste  and  repent  just  as  hastily.  As  it  chances — if 
things  ever  chance — her  seat  is  near  and  facinjj:  thenar 
door.  As  it  opens  to  a<hnit  the  conductor  on  his 
rounds,  her  glance  alights  for  a  second  on  the  figure 
of  a  brakeman  standing  on  the  [platform. 

She  leans  forward,  with  a  sudden  eager  interest 
that  drives  even  her  lover  from  lier  mind,  to  look 
again.  Surely,  that  strong,  tall  ligure,  and  all  that 
blue-black  curly  hair,  are  familiar.  He  turns  for  a 
moment,  sending  a  careless  glance  backward  to  where 
she  sits,  and  Joanna  sinks  back  in  her  seat  with  a  gasp. 

For  years  she  has  been  seeking  him  vainly,  and  he 
stands  before  her  now,  when  no  one  could  be  farther 
from  her  thoughts. 

They  are  near  New  York  before  Ilerr  Ericson  re- 
turns.    Joanna  seizes  upon  him  at  once. 

"There  is  a  brakeman  on   board  this  train   that  I 
know,"  she   says,   eagerly.     "  I   want   to   see   him — I 
U 


t   ! 


I:'- 


1^ 


f  '. 


:i! 


I     I 


;  I 
!  i 


r., 


314 


"  JOAN   BENNETT 


rprti    7  7 


'.'    i"« 


must  see  him,  aiul  yoii  will  please  liiint  liim  up  for  me, 
and  tell  him  so.  I^eihaps  you  have  seen  hitn — a  tali, 
dark,  good-lookins^  yoking  man.  He  was  out  tliere  not 
half  an  hour  aifo." 

The  professor  stares  a  moment,  then  laughs. 

"  iAIein  Gott !  She  wanls  to  see  the  handsome 
young  brakeman  !  Shall  I  tell  him  to  call  on  Miss 
Jenny  Wild,  the  celebrated  vocalist,  or " 

"  Look  !  look  !  Thcro  he  is,"  Miss  Wild  exclaims, 
unljeeding,  "  standing  on  the  platform.  No,  do  not 
speak  to  him  until  .Aladamc  and  I  are  in  the  carriage  ; 
then  give  him  my  card  and  tell  him  to  appoint  an  hour, 
and  I  will  be  at  home  to  receive  him.  Say  no  more  than 
that ;  he  will  not  refuse,  I  am  sure  ;  he  will  be  too  curi- 
ous. It  is  the  most  fortunate  thing  in  the  world  ;  he  is 
a  person  I  have  been  wishing  to  see  for  years  and  years." 

They  rise  and  leave  the  train,  lind  a  hack,  and  take 
their  seats,  always  with  an  eye  on  the  tall,  dark  young 
brakeman.  He  /.?  a  handsome  fellow,  as  he  leans  in  an 
attitude  of  careless  strength  against  the  car,  his  straw 
hat  pushed  back  ofl  his  sunburned,  gypsy  face,  a  red 
handkerchief  knotted  loosely  about  his  throat. 

"  He  might  stand  as  a  model  for  a  Roman  bandit, 
at  this  moment,"  eloanna  thinks,  with  a  smile  ;  "the 
dark  and  dashing  bricrand  of  romance.  There  !  the 
professor  has  accosted  him,  and  now — see  the  profound 
astonishment  depicted  on  his  face  !  "  she  laughs  softly, 
as  ehe  watches  the  puzzled  amaze  of  the  young  man, 
and  that  laugh  cleart.  away  the  last  of  the  vapors. 
After  all,  Frank  Livingston  has  not  hurt  her  very 
badly,  judging  by  that  clear  laugh. 

"  He  will  come,"  says  the  professor,  returning,  and 
wiping  his  warm  face,  "  but  he  is  a  greatly  bewildered 


■u 


li 


"  JOAX    BEXNETT. 


n 


315 


for  me, 
—a  tall, 
levc  not 

xndsome 
on  MiBS 

:ixclaims, 
),  do  not 
-avriago  ; 
,  an  honr, 
nore  than 
i  too  cnri- 
rkl  ;  he  i« 
ncl  years." 
,  and  take 
ark  yonng 
leans  in  an 
,  \iis  straw 
[ace,  a  red 

at. 

lan  bandit, 
iiile;  "the 
^herc!   the 
e  profound 
u'hs  softly, 
young  man, 
the  vapors. 
ft  her  very 

nrning,  and 
/  bewildered 


young  man.  He  denies  knowing  any  Miss  Jenny 
Wild — thinks  she  must  be  mistaken  in  suj)pc)siiig  sliu 
knows  him,  but  will  be  at  her  service,  if  she  likes,  in 
an  hour.     I  told  him  that  would  do — will  it  ?" 

"Admirably,"  Joanna  says,  still  liiughlng.  "  I  saw 
his  incredulity  in  his  face;  he  is  watching  us  distrust- 
fully at  this  moment.  An  hour  is  short  notice  ;  but 
sliort  or  long,  I  shall  be  most  exceedingly  glad  to  see 
him." 

Prom{)(ly  at  the  hour's  eJid,  the  young  brakeman, 
in  much  the  same  costume  as  on  the  car,  with  the 
addition  of  a  li  len  coat,  presents  himself  at  the  cottage 
and  inquires  for  3Iiss  Jenny  Wild.  He  is  ushered 
into  a  pretty  parlor,  and  in  the  suhdued  light,  sees 
advancing  a  tall  and  elegant-looking  young  lady  in 
navy-blue  silk,  with  a  creamy  white  rose  in  her  hair, 
a  smile  of  welcome  on  her  lips,  and  one  hand  extended. 
She  stands  without  a  word  before  him.  The  young 
man  stands  in  turn,  and  gazes,  more  puzzled  perhaps 
than  he  has  ever  been  before  in  his  life.  She  is  the 
first  to  speak. 

"  Well,"  she  says,  laughing  outright,  "  will  you  not 
shake  hands  ?" 

"i"  don't  mind,"  the  young  fellow  answers,  and 
takes  in  his  great  brown  paw  the  slim,  cool  member 
she  extends,  "  but  I'll  be  blessed  if  I  know  you  !  And 
yet  it  does  seem  to  me  I've  seen  you  before,  too." 

"I  should  tliink  so — seen  me,  felt  me,  boxed  my 
ears  many  a  time  and  oit !" 

"  What  !" 

"  A!)  !  you  would  not  do  it  now,  I  dare  say.  You 
are  much  too  gallant,  no  doubt,  but  such  is  the  fact. 


\i  ' 


316 


*'  JOAN   BENNETT.'* 


Look  very  hard,  Judson.  Surely  five  years  cannot 
have  ohanujcd  nie  so  ver]i  much." 

"  l>y  Jiii)itt'r  !"  Judson  Sleaford  shouts,  "it  is — it 
is — our  Joanna  !" 

"  Your  Joanna — Sleaford's  Joanna — Wild  Joanna  ! 
Yes — Miss  Jenny  Wild  now,  though,  to  all  the  rest  of 
the  world.  Dear  old  Jud  !  how  glad  I  am  to  &ee  you 
at  last  !" 

He  liolds  her  hands  and' stands  gazing  at  her,  eyes 
and  mouth  wide  with  wonder. 

"Joanna!  Our  Joanna  !  got  up  like  this — a  swell 
— a  high-toned  young  lady — dressed  ii  silk  and  roses  ! 
Well,  by  George  !  And  hero  I've  been  looking  for 
you  high  and  low  for  the  past  five  years  !  Upon  my 
soul,  Jo,  I  can  hardly  believe  my  eyes  ?  Is  it  you  ? 
Why,  you  used  to  be  ugly,  and  now  I  swear  you 
are 1" 

"  Ugly  still,  Jud — fine  feathers  make  fine  birds, 
that  is  all.  But  sit  down,  I  am  dying  for  a  long,  long 
chat  with  you.  Dear  old  fellow,  how  nice,  and  brown, 
and  well  you  are  looking  !" 

She  draws  forward  a  puffy  chair  of  satin  and 
springs,  and  Judson  Sleaford  sinks  down  on  it.  But 
his  black  eyes  are  still  riveted  on  Joanna's  face  ;  he 
cannot  believe  them.  He  is  trying  to  recall  the  bare- 
footed, red-haired,  fiercely-scowling  child  he  remembers 
so  well,  and  place  her  side  by  side  with  this  smiling, 
charming,  "high-toned  "  lady,  so  good  to  look  at,  and 
make  one  of  the  two.  And  he  cannot.  No  man 
could.     Every  trace  of  that  Joanna  is  gone  ! 

"  I  can't  believe  it,"  he  cries  out.  "  It  is  all  a 
fraud  !  It  isn't  Joanna  at  all.  You  can't  be.  Why, 
ahe  had  red  hair,  and  you " 


"JOAN   BENNETT." 


317 


nnot 


s— It 


Liiua 


1 


e  you 
,  eyes 


I  swo 


n 


roses  : 
lie;  for 
on  my 
t,  you  ? 
ar  you 

birds, 
|ig,  long 
brown, 

in    and 
But 
Hce  ;  be 
^e  bare- 
nembors 
niiling, 
at,  and 
NJo   man 

IS  all   a 

Why, 


"Ilavo  red  hair  still — not  so  rosy  though  as  in 
those  days.  Don't  stare  so,  Jutl.  Your  oyi's  ^^•ill 
drop  on  the  carpet  !  It  is  I,  myself — I,  Joanna— no 
other.     I  wish  it  were." 

"Why?"  bluntly— "why  should  you  wish  it?  / 
think  you  are  one  of  the  luckiest  girls  that  ever  was 
born." 

"Do  you?"  she  says,  a  tinge  of  bitterness  in  her 
tone.  "  Because  I  wear  silk  dresses  and  live  in  a  New- 
port cottage?  Well,  it  is  better  certainly  tlinn  life  at 
the  lied  Farm,  but  as  for  heing  the  luckiest  girl  ever 
born " 

"  What  do  you  call  it  then  ?"  he  demands — "  having 
the  fortune  of  a  princess  left  you  in  this  way  ?  By 
Jove  !  I  call  it  the  greatest  stroke  of  luck  that  ever 
was  heard  of,  out  of  the  Arabian  Nights." 

Joanna  stares  in  turn. 

"  The  fortune  of  a  princess  ?  What  do  you  mean  ? 
/^have  had  no  fortune  left  me.     I  sing  for  my  living, 

and  make  a  very  good  one,  but  as  for  fortune Well, 

pay  for  my  dresses,  and  so  on,  and  have  some  pocket- 
money  left,  if  you  call  that  the  fortune  of  a  princess." 

It  has  seemed  that  by  nc  possibility  can  Judson 
Sleaford  stare  liarder  than  he  has  been  doing,  but  at 
these  words  he  absolutely  gasps. 

"Do — do  you  mean  to  say,"  he  demands,  as  soon 
as  he  can  speak,  "  that  you  don't  know  ?" 

"  Don't  know  what  ?" 

"  Good  Lord  above !  Do  you  mean  to  tell  mo 
Geoffrey  Lamar  never  hunted  you  up  after  all  ?" 

"  Geoffrey  Lamar  ?  I  have  not  seen  or  heard  of 
Geoffrey  Lamar  since  I  left  Brightbrook  nearly  six 
years  ago," 


m- 


U 


818 


"JOAN    HKNNIOTT." 


m 

''.>>: 


il^ 


'I:  J 


Judsoii  Slcaford  falls  back  in  his  (,iiair,  uiul  looks 
lu'lplcs^-ly  al  her. 

"And  al!  lliis — this  col  (ai^c^  and  I'uniiturc,  and  l,h;it 
dress,  and — and  cvci'yf  hinu;--do  you  mean  to  say  you 
work  lor  and  oarn  all  that  1'" 

"  I  work  for  and  earn  all  that.  I  liavc  never  had 
a  |)enny  I  did  not  work  for  and  oarn.  1  do  not.  know 
what  you  are  taikin*,^  ahout.  I  wish  you  would  ocaso 
BtariuL?  and  exjjlain,"'  cries  Joajwia,  almost  losing 
patience. 

.lud  takes  out  liis  red  haiulkerchief  and  wip(>s  IiIh 
lieated  face.  His  amazement  al  lindinLj  W'ihl  .loanna 
in  this  stately  young  lady,  walkinuj  in  silk  attire,  is 
not  for  a  moment  to  be  e(j[ualed  by  the  amazement  he 
feels  at  findinjjf  luu*  in;norant  of  who  she  is.  Mingled 
with  the  amaze  is  delinht  that  it  lias  been  reserved  for 
hini  to  tell  her. 

"  Then,  by  thunder,  tliis  is  the  luckiest  day's  work, 
Joanna,  you  have  done  in  a  long  time  !  Just  let  me 
catch  my  breath,  will  you,  and  don't  hurry  me.  I'll 
tell  you  everything  directly,  everything  you've  been 
wanting  to  know  all  your  life.  First  of  all  let  me  ask 
you  some  questions.  Vou  know  rich  John  Abbott 
Bhot  liimseU":"' 

"  Yes,  I  know  that.     Poor  Mrs.  Abbott." 

"  Ah  !  poor  Jfr.  Abbott,  I  should  say.  You  don't 
happen  to  know^  ic/ii/  he  did  it  ?" 

"  Certainly  not.  I  only  saw  it  in  the  papers,  and 
the  reason  assigned  was  temporary  aberration  of 
intellect." 

"  Yes,  jest  so.  Temporary  fiddlestick  !  He  knew 
what  he  was  about — he  was  going  to  be  found  out, 
and  was  afraid  of  the  law  and  his  high  and  mighty 


in 


•''♦-;-_ 


"JOAN    IJKNXK/IT." 


310 


missis.  S<i  lio  )ml.  :i  hiillcf,  llir(Mi;^li  Lis  ln'iiiii,  ninl 
got,  out.  of  it  tli;il  way.  'I'iicii — i|o  you  know  \vli;il 
Mrs.  Abbott  iiiid  yoiiii^  Jiiiriiar  <li(l  th<'ii  ?" 

"Shut  lip  Abl)olt  Woo.l  iiikI  left  {\\<'  |»i;i('('.  Ycs, 
but  rvcii  that  I  only  <Iis('oV('i-<Mi  a  Wwy  weeks  ;iLro.  Oik; 
can  banlly  wonder — so  sensitive  as  Mrs.  AI)bot.t  was, 
and  alter  so  sho(;kin_L^  a  t  rai^cdy.  Iain  not  suipi-ised 
Kh(!   has  never  returned.      IJut    when-    are   they,    .Iiid- 


BOIl.'' 


'.<" 


"You    would   like  to  sec  them?"  ho  iisks,  lookini^ 
at    lier    curiously.       "  You    arc    as    fond    cd'    them   as 


ever  V" 


"  Can  you  ask  ?  They  were  my  friends  when  1 
ha<l  not  a  friend  in  the  worhl.  'I'hey  did  all  they 
eouhl  to  lift  nu!  out,  of  the  misei-y  an<l  deifradation 
they  found  me  in.  As  fond  of  tliern  as  ever  !  I  tell 
you,  Judson  Sleaford,  1  would  lay  down  my  life  for 
Mrs.  Abbott." 

"Ah!"  Jud  says,  in  a  peculiar  tone,  "and  for 
GeofTr(!y  Lamar  ?" 

"  And  for  Geoffrey  Lamar.  What  I  am  to-day  I 
owe  to  them.  All  I  have,  or  ever  may  have,  1  owe  to 
them.  Why  do  you  look  like  that,  and  ypeak  like 
that  ?  What  do  you  know  of  them  ?  Tell  me  where 
they  are,  if  you  know  that." 

"I  don't  know  that.  And  you  need  not  be  in  a 
rush  to  find  them  as  far  .as  they  are  concerned.  I  dare 
say,  if  the  truth  was  known,  you're  about,  the  last,  per- 
son in  this  world  they  want  to  see.  W'hy,  T  heard 
Geoffrey  Lamar  as  good  as  swear  to  find  you,  if  you 
were  above  ground,  and  restore  you  to  your  rights,  and 
this  is  the  way  he  keeps  his  word  !" 

"  Heard  him  swear  !     Swear  to  whom  ?" 


:t 


'i 


320 


'*JOAN   BENNETT." 


|i 


■f 


; 

1  ■ 

h 

Ii 

i' 

■1 

;1 

!  ' 

1 

"To  (latl — poor  old  cliii)) — the  night  liodicd." 

"And  restoro  mo  to  my  riglits  ?  Wli;it  are  you 
tiilkinuf  of,  Jud  ?"  wlio  asks,  in  a  njazc;  of  wonder. 

"  Tm  lalking  of  what  I  heard  with  my  own  cars, 
thounh  nobody  known  to  tiiis  day  I  lieard  it.  I'm  talk- 
ing of  what  1  heard  da<l  tell  yonng  Lamar  on  iiisileath- 
Ix'd,  and  young  I/amar  swore  to  tell  you.  lie  hasn't 
done  it,  it  seems.  Dad  sent  for  liim  to  do  justice  to 
yoM  at  last,  and  tell  him  what  hold  he  had  over  his 
Nte))-I'ather,  who  you  were,  aiul  let  him  right  you,  see- 
ing he  was  your  friend." 

"  W'iio  you  were  !"  She  liears  those  words  and 
Ktarts  to  her  feet.  She  stands  before  him,  her  hands 
clasped,  her  eyes  wild  and  wide,  her  lips  breathless  and 
i}})art. 

"  Wlio  I  am  !  Judson— at  last  !" 

"Ah  !  don't  be  in  a  hurrv,  .Toanna.  I  don't  know 
whether  you  will  like  it  or  not  when  you  know — so 
fond  as  you  are  of  JNIrs.  Abbott,  too.  I  tell  you  it 
knocked  Lamar  over  like  a  bullet.  If  ever  you  saw  a 
corpse  take  a  walk — I  don't  suppose  you  did — he  looked 
like  that  when  he  left  the  house.  IJut  he  believed  what 
he  was  told,  and  dad  gave  him  the  ])aper  that  proved 
your  father  and  r;iotlier's  marriage,  and  your  baptism, 
out  in  San  ^'Vancisco.  He  needn't  deny  it,  for  I  saw 
it  all,  if  you  ever  have  to  go  to  law  about  it — and  I 
would,  by  Jupiter  !  Fortunes  like  that  don't  go  beg- 
ging every  day,  and  you're  the  rightful  heiress  of  every 
stick,  and  stone,  and  penny.  Fight  it  out,  Joanna,  and 
I'll  stand  to  you  through  thick  and  thin." 

"But  who — who — ic/io  am  I?"  Joanna  cries  out. 


"Tell  me  that — never  mind  the  rest.      Who  am  I? 


5> 


(( 


Oh,  I  forgot,"  Jud  says,  coolly  and  slowly.  "  Youi 


THE   STORY. 


321 


w 


e  you 

I  cars, 

II  talk- 
(Icath- 
liasn't 
tic(!  to 
er  his 
•u,  see- 
ls and 

hands 
.'ss  and 


t  know 
ovv — so 
you   it 
saw  a 
looked 
I  what 
0  roved 
iplism, 
1  saw 
-and  I 
p;o  heg- 
r  every 
ina,  and 

ies  out, 
nl?" 
"Youl 


name  is  Joan  IJennett,  and  you're  the  eldest  daughter, 
and  solo  heiress,  of  the  hite  John  Abbott,  Esq.,  mil- 
lionaire !" 


*•♦ 


ciiAPrEii  vn. 


THE    STORY. 


Oil  see,  it  was  the  nii^ht  dad  died,"  says  Jiid 
Sleat'ord.  "  V'ou  know  about  that,  don't 
you  ?  It  all  betijan  about  y«'U.  Y^ou  had 
run  away  with  IJhike  while  <lad  was  away 
attending  a  prize-light.  When  he  came  home,  and 
heard  of  it — it  was  the  very  diekens  of  a  day,  I  re- 
member, in  the  way  of  wind  and  rain — he  just  mounted, 
and  rode  straight  as  a  die  for  Al>bott  Wood.  I  reckon 
he  thought  Mr.  Abbott  had  made  off  with  you,  or  had 
some  hand  in  it.  Ho  was  stone  white  with  rage.  What 
would  have  happened  there  and  then,  if  Abbott  had 
been  at  home,  the  Lord  only  knows,  lie  was  not,  and 
dad  came  back,  in  one  of  his  black  rages.  But  it 
seems  ho  had  left  word  for  Abbott  to  follow  ;  and 
Abbott  did  follow  that  very  .•jamo  night." 

Jud  is  rapidly  telling  his  story,  and  a  very  vivid 
narrator  ho  is.  The  first  overwhelming  shock  of  sur- 
prise is  over,  and  Joanna  sits  listening,  palo,  breathless, 
absorbed. 

"  We  were  all  off  to  a  dance,  I  remember,"  goes  on 
Judson,  "  only  the  girl  was  at  home.  Early  in  the 
morning,  as  we  were  driving  back,  we  were  met  by  old 
Hunt — you  know,  next  place  to  ours — with  the  word 
that  there  had  been  a  row  at  our  house,  and  that  dad 
was  done  for.  We  hurried  on,  and  there  we  found 
14* 


{III 


I  : 


322 


THE    STORY. 


hiin,  poor  old  fellow,  '  weltering  in  his  p;oro,'  as  the 
stories  put  it,  and  ahnost  at  the  last  gasj),  Alnii'St, 
hilt  not  quite.  Dad  was  so  uncointncMi  strong,  that  he 
gave  death  a  tough  tussle  for  it  before  ho  would  go. 
We  got  hiin  to  bod,  sent  for  the  doctor,  and  from  first 
to  last  I  was  his  nurse.  The  girls  were  afraid  of  him, 
lie  was  as  savage  sick  as  well,  poor  old  dad,  and  Dan — 
but  you  know  what  Dan  was — he  wouldn't  be  paid  to 
enter  ihe  room. 

*'  Well — I  took  care  of  dad.  I  gave  him  his  medi- 
cines and  his  drinks,  and  tliat,  and  did  the  best  I  knew 
for  him.  By  and  by  he  got  back  his  voice,  and  the 
lirst  thing  he  says  was  :  'Send  for  the  young  swell — 
young  Lamar.' 

"  'Abbott's  step-son?'  I  says,  I'^r,  of  course,  we  all 
knew  from  the  girl  that  Abbott  had  been  there,  and 
that  it  was  in  a  fracas  with  him  he  had  got  his  death- 
blow. And  dad's  eyes  shot  out  sparks  of  fire  after  their 
old  fashion. 

"•  '  Can't  you  hear,  you  fool  ?'  he  says,  in  a  fierce 
whisper.  '  Abbott's  step-son,  young  Lamar.  Go  for 
him,  bring  him  here  at  once.  I  have  something  he 
ouiiht  to  know  to  tell  him.     lie  must  come.' 

"Of  course,  I  went.  It  was  another  pelting  storm, 
and  when  I  got  to  the  house  I  saw  the  missis.  I  gave 
her  the  message.  Young  Lamar  was  in  New  York,  but 
she  telegraphed  for  him  at  once,  and  that  same  after- 
noon, just  before  dark,  he  came,  and  I  took  him  up- 
stairs to  dad's  room. 

"Now  dad,  although  he  was  dying  as  fast  as  he 
could,  kept  up  a  wonderful  deal  of  strength  to  the  very 
last.  His  voice  sounded  much  as  ever,  a  little  weaker, 
but  to  hear  him  you  would  never  know  he  was  so  near 


THE    STOUY. 


323 


as  the 

Almost, 

that  he 

»uld  i^o. 

•om  first 

of  him, 

Dan — 
paid  to 

is  modi- 

t  I  knew 

and  the 

swell — 

t»,  we  all 
ore,  and 
s  death- 
'ter  their 

a  fierce 

Go  for 

:hing  he 

g  storm, 
I  gave 
ork,  but 
10  after- 
hini  up- 

>t  as  he 

the  very 

weaker, 

so  near 


his  end.  And  he  had  workiM]  himself  up  ir.to  a  fever, 
waiting  for  Lamar.  lie  (*(mld  not  die,  he  ^aid,  U!itil  ho. 
h.id  s(M'n  him.  I  bronghl  the  yoiinu"  fellow  in,  and 
oirered  to  fetch  a  lig!u,  but  dad  wouldn't  have  none. 
He  ordered  me  out  of  the  room,  and  I  went,  but  only 
as  far  as  the  closet  where  we  hang  clothes.  You  re- 
member how  thin  the  ])artitions  were,  and  the  holes  in 
the  latli  and  j>last<.'ring  ?  J  was  curious  to  know  what 
lie  had  to  say  so  particular.  I  was  sure  it  was  some 
I'evenge  he  was  going  to  take  on  John  Abbott.  I  sat 
there  and  listened,  Joanna,  and  found  out  all  about  it 
and  you  at  last." 

There  is  a  brief,  breathless  pause.    Jud  draws  a  long 
breath.     Joanna  liardly  seems  to  breathe  or  stir. 

"  Oh,  go  on  ! "  she  says,  in  a  whisper,   and   young 
Sleaford  resumes. 

'"I'll  tell  it  in  my  own  way — not  in  dad's — he 
cursed  a  good  deal,  you  ktiow,  and  abused  Abbott. 
You  won't  care  for  that.  It  seems  that  long  before, 
nhen  Abbott  was  quite  a  young  man,  and  just  begin- 
iwing  to  get  on  in  California,  dad  came  thei'c,  a  widower, 
rith  all  of  us,  from  Liverpool,  and  a  sister  of  his  with 
iiim,  who  took  care  of  us.  This  sister,  it  api)ears,  was 
a  gooddooking  young  woman,  and  John  J>ennett — 
that  was  Abbott's  name  then,  and  his  right  name — 
took  a  fancy  to  her,  and  her  to  him,  and  he  ma'le  her 
his  wife.  His  wife,  mind  you,  all  right,  and  tight,  and 
legal.  Well — he  lived  with  her  for  a  while,  and  was 
good  enough  to  her  ;tnd  that,  and  gave  dad  a  helping- 
hand  as  weil,  and  then  all  of  a  sudden  he  started  off 
somewhere  up  country  to  the  mines,  on  a  sj)ec,  in- 
tending to  come  back  all  fair  and  square  when  his 
business   was  settled,  and   not  meaning  desertion,  or 


324 


THE    STORY. 


anything  like  that.  But  tliat's  what  it  proved  to  be — 
he  (lifl  not  come  back — dad  never  set  eyes  on  liiin 
again  till  he  set  eyes  on  him  as  the  rich  John  Abbott, 
of  Bright  brook,  and  his  wife  never  saw  him  in  this 
world  more.  Wlietlier  th^y  have  met  in  tlie  next  is 
more  than  I  know  ;  she  was  alive  and  well  on  the 
night  dad  told  the  story. 

"  Well,  Bennett — or  Abbott,  whichever  you  like — 
had  struck  a  vein  of  luck  up  there  in  the  hill  country, 
among  the  mines,  and  wasn't  coming  back.  It  was  a 
wild  region,  no  Vv'omen  there,  and  he  didn't  want  to 
fetch  his  wife.  So  he  wrote  ;  all  honest  and  square, 
you  see,  at  iirst,  and  sent  money.  Then  the  wife  had 
a  baby — yon — and  got  a  fever  of  some  sort  after,  and 
went  straight  stark  out  of  her  mind.  At  first  her 
husband  was  anxious  about  her,  got  nurses  and  so  on, 
but  after  a  time,  as  that  seemed  to  do  no  good, .he 
sent  word  to  dad  to  put  iier  in  an  insane  asylum,  and 
he  would  pay  the  damage.  The  young  one — you  again 
— WP3  to  be  put  out  to  nurse,  and  be  took  proper  care 
of.  It — you  again — was  christened  Joan,  after  its 
mother,  Joan  Bennett.  Bennett  didn't  come  liimself, 
you  understand — was  too  busy  making  money,  but  he 
sent  the  needful  to  dad,  and  dad  obeyed  so  far  as  to 
put  his  sister  in  the  asylum,  and  pocket  the  money  sent 
for  you.  Things  went  on  like  that  for  a  couple  of 
years,  then  all  at  once  Bennett  disappears,  and  from 
that  day  not  a  trace  of  him  was  to  be  found.  Aft  . 
that  dad  went  to  the  bad.  While  Bennett  sent  money 
it  was  well  enough,  but  dad  always  hated  work,  and 
shirked  it  so  poverty  came,  and  he  dodged  about  with 
us  'uns  from  pillar  to  post,  until  at  last,  after  some 
nine  years  of  it,  he  settled  us  in  a  wild  part  of  Penu- 


THE    STORY. 


326 


its 
olf, 
he 

to 
ent 

of 
om 
t  . 
ney 
and 
nth 
nae 
nu- 


sylvania  to  shift  for  ourselves,  an<l  started  off  liirasolf 
on  the  tramp.  There's  a  fate  in  these  things,  maybe. 
He  tramped  along  until  he  came  to  IJrisjjht brook,  and 
there,  of  course,  one  of  tiie  Hrst  people  ])()inted  out  to 
him  was  the  rich  man  of  the  place,  Mr.  John  Abbott. 
Of  course  dad  knew  his  man  at  a  look.  Tiiere  he  was, 
as  large  as  life,  as  rich  as  Rothschild,  with  a  new  wife, 
a  new  daughter,  a  new  name,  and  a  step-son.  The 
other  wife,  the  lawful  wife,  was  alive  and  well,  out  in 
San  Francisco,  as  dad  knew,  and  here  he  was,  a  bloom- 
ing bigamist,  with  i)roudest,  piou-^est  lady  in  the  land, 
for  number  two. 

"  Well,  dad  was  tickled,  you  may  believe.  All 
this  time  he  had  kept  you,  not  because  lie  wanted  you, 
or  cared  about  you,  but  because  he  didn't  know  what 
to  do  with  you.  You  were  a  trump-card  in  his  hand 
now. 

"He  took  a  nip;ht,  and  thought  it  all  over,  before 
he  showed  himself.  Abbott  was  in  his  power,  he 
knew,  but  he  did  not  dislike  Abbott,  and  he  made  up 
his  miud  not  to  be  too  hard  on  him,  to  get  a  good  liv- 
ing out  of  him,  and  let  him  off  at  that.  Ho  didn't 
bear  no  malice,  he  didn't  want  to  show  Abbott  up, 
there  was  nothing  to  be  gained  by  that,  there  was 
everything  to  be  gained  by  holding  his  tongue.  Dad 
didn't  want  to  be  a  gentleman,  and  rob  Abbott  out- 
right, he  only  wanted  to  be  flush  in  his  own  way.  As 
to  deserting  his  crazy  wife,  and  taking  up  with  this 
handsome  lady,  dad  didn't  blame  him  for  that  eithei', 
it  was  only  what  he  would  have  done  himself.  As  to 
you,  he  made  up  his  mind  to  say  you  were  dead.  He 
didn't  quite  know  why,  but  he  thought  that  if  Abbott 
guessed   who  you   were    he   might   try  to  spirit  j-oii 


11 


326 


THE    S'lORY. 


iir!        I 


away.  Then,  when  ho  liad  thoiiglil  it  well  out,  and 
settled  his  plans,  ho  wayhiid  Abbott,  in  eoni|»any  with 
Cok^nel  Ventnor,  and  1  heard  iiini  laugh  as  h(.'  told 
Lamar  tliat  night — ay,  dying  as  he  was,  he  laughed, 
when  lie  thought  how  struck  of  a  hea})  .'ohn  Abbott 
was  when  he  first  saw  his  face.  After  that  I  needn't 
tell  you  what  followed.  He  got  the  Red  Farm  give 
to  him,  sent  for  us  'uns,  and  settled  us  all  there.  Yon 
know  the  life  we  led.  jolly  for  ws,  but  deuced  hard  for 
you,  I  must  sav.  Dad  iMvne<l  ho  i'airlv  hated  v<>u  after 
that,  u  hy  he  didn't  know,  but  ho  did.  All  the  hate  he 
might  have  bt^stowed  on  your  father,  he  gave,  to  you  ; 
5o  you  wore  iil-ti-eated  morning,  noon,  and  night. 
\rul  I'm  ashamed  to  say  by  me  as  well  as  the  rest.  I 
ask  your  j)ar<b)n  now.  Joanna." 

The  young  fellow  says  it  with  real  feeling  ;  he  is 
honest'y  sorry,  and   she   sees  it.      She  gives  him   he||ps. 
hand,  and  he  starts  to  find  how  cold  it  is. 

"  You  need  not,"  she  says.  "  You  alone  never 
were  cruel  to  me,  Judson!  But,  oli,  my  childhood  ! 
my  youth  !  What  a  childhood,  what  a  youth  has 
been  mine  !" 

"  Ah  !"  Judd  says,  witli  a  hard  breath  of  syrapatliy. 
"Well  then,  the  next  was  the  coming  of  Geoffrey 
Lamar,  and  the  sudden  interest  he  took  in  you.  Per- 
haps John  Abbott  suspected — nobody  knows — he  re- 
fused to  let  you  come  to  Abbott  Wood.  You  remem- 
ber the  evening  Lamar  came  and  told  y(?li  so  ?  Dad 
took  the  matter  in  hand,  through  pure  contrariness 
and  cussedness,  as  he  owned  ;  he  went  to  the  big 
house,  and  he  made  Abbott  let  you  come.  His  wife 
should  look  after  you,  and  nobody  else  ;  his  daughter 
should  be  your  companion  ;  his    high-toned   step-sou 


THE    STORY. 


327 


t,  and 
v  with 
e  told 
lulled, 
Vbbott 
leedii't 
n  prive 
Yon 
ard  lor 
u  at"  tor 
late  he 


)  you  ; 

night. 

■est.     I 


;  he  is 
ini  he|pK. 

never 

Ihood  ! 
ith  has 

apathy. 
eotYrey 
Per- 
he  re- 
remem- 
Dad 
rariness 
the   big 
lis  wife 
aughter 
step-sou 


your  friend.  And  he  had  his  way.  And  now, 
wlictlier  Mrs.  Abbott  suspected  or  not,  I  don't  know — 
that's  what  I've  puzzled  over  many  a  time  since.  Did 
she  suspeet,  and  did  she  do  all  that  kindness  to  you  to 
quiet  lier  conscience,  knowing  she  was  wronging  you 
all  the  time?  I  can't  make  it  out.  Them  tine  ladies 
will  do  a  great  deal  sooner  than  lose  their  money  and 
position.  Was  slie  one  of  them,  or  not  ?  As  to 
Lamar,  I  do  believe  it  was  all  news  to  him.  I  tell  you 
he  looked  lik(!  a  corpse.  And  no  wonder.  There  it 
was  !  his  motiier  was  not  that  man's  wif(,^ — a  fellow 
like  that,  that  at  his  best  was  like  the  dirt  under  her 
feet ;  his  little  sister  was  a — ill(\gitimate  ;  and  they 
were  prouder  than  Lu(;ifer !  You  (^an  guess  how 
Geoffrey  Lamar  felt  as  he  sat  and  listened  to  the  story 
of  his  mother's  disgrace,  told  by  the  lips  of  a  dying 
man." 

Joanna  has  covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  Oh  ! 
sae  can  guess  it — the  shame,  the  horror,  the  apj)alling 
force  of  that  most  horrible  blow  !  Oh,  Geoffrey  ! 
truest  friend  !  noblest  heart  that  ever  beat  !  and  this 
was  his  reward  for  saving  her  ! 

"  When  you  ran  away  with  Blake,"  goes  on  Jnd, 
"dad  suspected  foul  play  on  the  part  of  Abbott, 
thought  he  had  a  liand  in  the  business,  and  went  there 
at  once.  That  night  they  had  it  out.  Dad  had  the 
certificates  of  your  motlier's  marriage  and  your  ba[)tism, 
and  swore  to  expose  Abbott.  Tliere  was  a  struggle. 
Abbott  strove  to  master  dad,  and  get  them.  Dad 
pulled  out  a  knife,  and  would  have  stabbed  Abbott 
without  doubt,  but  that  he  slipped  forward,  fell  on 
his  own  weapon,  and  stabbed  himself.  Then  Abbott 
fled.     At  first  dad  did  not  realize  how  badly  he  was 


11 


328 


thp:  story. 


>-i 


hurt,  and  had  strenujth  enough  left  to  replace  the 
])iipor(?  in  their  hi(ling-])lace  before  he  called  for 
help.  l»iit  the  girl  was  frightened  and  wouldn't 
come.  Tie  tried  to  crawl  from  the  room,  but  fainted, 
it  seems,  from  loss  of  blood.  There  he  lay,  wounded 
and  bleeding,  until  morning — if  he  had  been  cared  for 
in  time  ho  could  liave  lived,  not  a  doubt  about  it. 
And  '.hat  was  the  story  he  had  to  tell  Geoffrey  Lamar. 
He  gave  liim  the  papers,  told  him  where  to  find  your 
mother,  and  so  sent  him  away.  I  saw  young  Lamar 
as  he  ieft  the  house — I  never  want  to  see  a  face  look 
like  that  again. 

"That  night  dad  died,  but  first  of  all  he  cleared 
John  Abbott  of  any  share  in  his  death.  I  su])pose  he 
thought  he  had  had  revenge  enough.  And  so  he 
had. 

"  Well,  we  buried  poor  old  dad.  I  never  said  a 
word  to  anybody — it  was  no  good,  I  had  no  proofs; 
Lamar  had  them,  and  you  were  gone.  Abbott  carried 
things  with  a  high  hand  with  Dan,  turned  us  out  as 
fast  as  we  could  bundle.  And  I  don't  wonder.  For 
my  part,  I  was  ready  to  go.  I  was  tired  of  life  on 
the  farm.  Lora  married,  Liz  came  to  town,  Dan  went 
to  sea,  and  I  drifted  up  to  the  city.  Then,  one  morn- 
ing, about  six  weeks  after,  I  picked  up  a  paper,  and 
the  first  thing  I  saw  was  the  suicide  of  the  rich  man 
of  Brightbrook — nobody  knew  why.  But  I  knew. 
I  wrote  to  Lora,  and  heard  how  Mrs.  Abbott  and  her 
son  and  daughter  had  left  the  ])lace,  and  that  Abbott 
Wood  was  shut  up.  It  has  been  shut  up  ever  since. 
It  stands  there  to-day,  and  you  are  its  mistress,  and 
heiress  by  right  of  every  penny  John  Abbott — or 
Bennett — has  left." 


THE    STORY. 


329 


and 
L — or 


Her  hands  drop,  she  is  deadly  pale,  her  eyes  burn 
in  the  fixed  pallor  of  lier  face. 

"As  for  Lamar,  it  is  strange,"  Jud  continues, 
slowly,  "and  yet,  perhaps  it  is  not  strange  either.  He 
promised  dad,  on  his  word  of  honor,  he  would  hunt 
you  up,  and  see  you  restored  to  your  rights,  and  he 
has  not  done  it.  You  see,  to  do  it,  all  the  world  would 
liave  to  know  of  his  disgrace,  and  his  mother's  and 
Leo's,  and  they  all  are  so  infernally  proud.  Still, 
Lamar  seemed  the  sort  of  fellow  to  do  right  at  any 
price,  and  not  stop  to  count  the  cost.  Tie  hasn't  this 
time,  it  seems.  It  must  have  been  a  trememlous  blow 
to  Mrs.  Abbott.  I  wonder  where  they  are?  In  Europe 
somewhere,  I  suppose,  flourishing  on  your  money.  It 
ain't  lair,  by  Jove,  and  I'd  hunt  them  up  if  I  was  you, 
and  have  my  rights.  Your  mother's  living,  or  was 
then — you  can  find  and  bring  her  forward,  and  I'll 
swear  to  all  I've  told  you.  Possession  is  nine  points 
of  the  law,  they  say,  and  they  have  that  and  the 
money,  still " 

"1  must  find  them  !"  Joanna  cries;  "  but  oh  !  not 
for  that — not  for  that  !  I  must  lind  my  mother — 
my  mother!  mine!  that  I — I,  Sieaford's  Joanna, 
should  have  a  mother  !  Oh,  Judson,  help  me — I  must 
find  my  mother  at  once,  at  once,  at  once !" 

"  And  the  fortune  ?"  says  Judson,  looking  at  her 
curiously. 

-'  The  fortune  !  Ah,  dear  Heaven,  what  is  fortune, 
a  thousand  fortunes,  to  that  ?  To  find  my  mother  ! 
my  poor,  lonely,  imprisoned  mother  !  And  I  must  find 
Mrs.  Abbott  and  Geoffrey  Lamar.  What  they  must 
have  sufTered  !  Ah,  what  they  must  have  sufiFered  !" 
"  And  what  they  have  kept — don't  forget  that.  Thej 


f  \ 


ll: 


330 


THE    STORY. 


Iwivt)  the  fortune  all  this  time.*.  And  tlioy  never  looked 
for  yon." 

"  1'hoy  have — ihoy  must  ;  I  will  not  believe  it.  Oh  ! 
if  they  M'erc  not  good,  not  noble,  not  unselfish,  then 
thci'e  is  no  goodness,  no  nobility,  no  unscllishness  on 
earth,  1  will  not  believe  it.  ]\li's.  Abbott  never  knew. 
I  would  slake  my  life  on  that.  Geoffrey  has  looked 
for  me — I  believe  it  as  I  believe  in  heaven.  To  doul»t 
tliem  would  be  for  r.ie  ruin.  I  could  no  more  havo 
faith  in  honesty  or  truth  on  earth.  Oh  !  I  shall  find 
them  ;  1  shall  know  no  rest  until  I  have  found  and 
comforted  them,  as  much  as  I  can  comfort — until  in 
ever  so  Utile  I  have  returneil  to  them  what  they  so 
freely,  so  generously  gave  to  me.  The  bread  they  oast 
upon  the  waters  shall  return  to  them  ;  the  waif  they 
tried  to  rescue  shall  prove  her  gratitude  and  love.  And 
Leo  is  my  sister — dear,  dear,  dearest  little  Leo  !  Oh, 
my  God!  what  a  grateful  heart  I  ought  to  have  this 
day — what  a  happy  girl  I  ought  to  be  !  And  I  am. 
I  will  find  them — I  will  comfort  them.  I  will  find  my 
mother — I  will  devote  my  life  to  her.  Help  me,  Jud 
— help  me  in  this,  and  thank  you,  thank  you  a  hundred 
times  for  what  you  have  told  me  to-dav  !" 

Her  face  is  transfigured  ;  it  is,  young  Sleaford 
thinks  in  wonder  and  awe,  like  the  face  of  an  angel — 
lit  with  love,  wet  with  tears,  more  than  beautiful,  with 
the  beauty  of  a  noble,  a  true,  a  grand,  unselfish  soul. 

"I  will  do  all  I  can,"  he  says,  rising.  "I  didn't 
think  you  would  take  it  like  this.  I  will  hunt  tlie 
world  over  if  you  say  so,  Joanna,  you're  a  trump, 
and  no  mistake  !  " 

•'  Come  this  evening,"  she  says  ;  "  give  me  until 
then  to  think." 


m. 


r 


HOW   JOAXNA    CAME    BACK. 


331 


Slio  sinks  down,  unci  onco  more  covers  her  fiico. 
And  so  Jiidson  leaves  her,  with  hated  h^-iTtth,  and 
Imshed  I'ootrall,  and  soKiun — feeling  a  sensation  upon 
hitn  as  thouixh  lie  were  u'oincc  out  of  church. 

But  in  the  garish  sunshine,  in  the  bustling,  busy, 
outer  worhl,  his  t»ld  self  returns  as  he  sets  his  hat 
rakishly  on  his  mop  of  blue-black  hair. 

"  I'm  blessed  if  I  ever  see  any  one  so  changed,"  lie 
thinks  in  wonder;  "she's  no  more  like  tliat  Joanna 
than — than  I'm  like  an  archbishop.  We  did  our  best 
to  spoil  her,  and  a  little  more  might  a'  done  it,  only 
there's  some  sort  caiCt  be  out  and  out  spoiled,  do  what 
you  will,  and  she's  one.  She's  a  stunner — slus's  a  brick 
— she's  fit  to  be  an  angel,  and  with  the  angels  stand. 
But  for  all  that,  Lamar  and  his  mother  will  wish  her 
at  the  dickens  the  day  she  hunts  'em  up.  It's  nature — 
I  would  myself,  in  their  place." 


*•» 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


UDti] 


now   JOANNA    CAME    BACK. 

EOFF,"  Leo   says,   with  some   hesitation, 
"  what  is  the  matter  with  Frank  ?" 

"  Matter  with  Frank  ?"  repeats  Geof- 
frey, looking  up  from  the  evening  paper, 
abstractedly,  "there  is  nothing  the  matter  with  Frank. 
He  looks  in  very  good  health." 

"I  don't  mean  his  health,"  returns  little  Leo,  pout- 
ing, "  I  mean — I  mean  his  looks.  A  person  may  have 
something  thb  matter  with  him,  and  still  his  liver  and 
lungs  be  all  right." 


In 


332 


HOW   JOANNA   CAME   BACK. 


M 


I; 
i' 


I 


"  Oh,  you  mean  the  secret  sorrow  sort  of  thini^,  do 
you?"  wilh  an  atnusod  h)ok.  "Well — yes — couw  to 
tliink  of  it,  Livini^stoii  does  look  a  triHe  hipped — as  if 
he  had  gotten  a  facer,  somehow,  in  the  set-to  with  life. 
liut  it  is  only  what  he  must  expect,  as  well  as  the  rest 
of  us,"  says  Dr.  Jjamar,  philosophically,  jjfoing  back  to 
his  pa|)er.  "  As  we  ride  onward  in  life,  care  mounts 
the  crupper  with  most  of  us." 

"It  seems  odd  it  should  with  him,"  Leo  says,  half 
to  herself,  and  with  a  touch  of  regret.  "  Whenever  I 
wished  to  recall  the  happiest,  brightest  face  of  old  times, 
his  was  the  one  that  always  started  up.  It  never  used 
to  wear  a  cloud.     And  now " 

"  I  see  typhoid  is  spreading,"  remarks  Dr.  Lamar, 
glancing  up  from  his  sheet,  ''and  two  or  three  cases  of 
malignant  typ'ius  iiave  appeared.  This  looks  badly 
and  the  sanitary  state  of  this  city  is  a  disgrace  to " 

But  Leo  does  not  wait  for  the  conclusion  of  this 
uninteresting  speech.  She  has  caught  a  glimpse  of 
some  one  coming  up  the  road,  and  starts  to  her  feet ; 
she  knows  that  tall,  graceful  figure,  that  negligent 
walk. 

Brother  and  sister  have  been  for  some  time  out  here 
in  the  scented  summer  dusk.  Mamma  is  reading  one 
of  her  pious  little  books  in  her  room,  and  their  guest 
went  to  the  city  in  the  afternoon.  It  is  their  guest 
who  approaches,  with  a  certain  air  of  weariness  and 
boredom,  now.  ^n  his  hand  he  carries  a  large  bouquet, 
whose  fragrance  heralds  his  approach. 

"  Ah,  Livingston,"  Geoffrey  says,  genially,  "back? 
Good  evening.  Were  you  successful  ?  Did  j^ou  find 
your  mother  ?" 

"No,"  Frank  says,  moodily,  "I  did  not.     There  is 


ini^,  do 
lotnc  to 
I— :is  if 
itii  life. 
Ma  rest 
buck  to 
mounts 

^s,  iialf 
iK'vor  I 
(1  tiinos, 
fer  used 

Lamar, 
cases  of 
s  badly 
|tO " 

of  this 

pse  of 
feet ; 

'ffligent 

)ut  here 
ng  one 
guest 
guest 
ss  and 
auquet, 

back  ? 
>u  find 

here  is 


now  JOANNA   CAME   BACK. 


333 


a  fatality  in  it,  I  think.  It  has  been  a  regular  game  of 
bide  and  seek.  She  left  yi-sterday  for  Sai'atdga, 
Where  is  Leo  V" 

'I'he  sound  of  the  piano  in  the  dusk  of  the  parlor 
answers.  Leo  is  well  enough  to  limp  about  all  day, 
and  sing  in  the  twilight.  Hers  is  a  voiee  like  herself, 
low,  and  soothing,  and  sweet,  suited  to  n(»!hing  more 
pretentious  than  little  iiome  songs  and  ten<ler  love  dit- 
ties. It  is  one  of  these  she  sings  now,  "  Take  Hack  the 
Heart  thou  Gavest." 

It  is  too  dark  to  read.  Dr.  Lamar  lays  down  his 
paper,  and  essays  conversation  on  the  cheerful  subjects 
of  typhoid  and  typhus.  But  Frank's  replies  are  mono- 
syllabic ;  he  is  listening  to  that  gentle  little  plaijit  with 
a  savaije  sort  of  soreness  at  his  heart.  Even  liere  his  in- 
fidelity  faces  him,  in  the  innocent  voice  of  the  singer, 
in  the  mournful  words  of  the  song. 

Geoffrey  sees  he  is  not  in  the  mood  for  talk,  and 
resigns  hitnself  to  listen  also.  Little  Leo's  singing  is 
always  pleasant  to  the  fraternal  ear.  Certainly,  Liv- 
ingston is  very  much  changed,  he  thinks,  he  used  to  be 
rather  a  rattle-pate  ;  melancholy  and  Frank  never  used 
to  be  on  speaking  terms.  Can  it  be  connected  with 
Olga?  the  young  doctor  wonders.  He  sighs  as  he 
wonders  ;  she  rises  before  him,  a  vision  of  pure,  pale 
loveliness,  a  daughter  of  the  gods,  divinely  tall  and 
most  divinely  fair — no  other  he  sees  equals  her.  Happy 
Frank,  if  he  is  to  win  her.  But  is  he  worthy  ?  He  is 
the  sort  of  a  fellow  to  fancy  himself  in  love  many 
times,  but  Olga  Ventnor  has  a  deep  nature,  a  strong, 
steadfast  heart  ;  the  man  she  gives  herself  to  should 
be  brave,  and  loyal,  and  true. 

A  good  fellow  enough,  Frank — a  fellow  to  make  a 


!* 


H 


334 


HOW   ,r()AN>fA    0/ 


BACK. 


dilTorcMit  sort  of  girl  Iwippy,  but  nover  Olga  Vciit- 
iior. 

Tlic  soii^  I'lids  ;  .sileiico  lulls  ;  Fijuik  rises  iind  ap' 
pi'oiurliC'S  the  piano. 

"A  melancholy  ditty,"  In-  says,  lialf-sinilinuf. 
"Will  you  have  sonic  whili;  roses,  Leo?  'I'liey  used 
to  1)0  your  favorite  (lowers — used  they  not?  Vou  see 
I  renuMnher  old  titnos  ami  tastes.  And  as  a  n-wind  of 
merit,  sing  foi*  mo  ai^ain — something  not  (piite  so 
liearf-hroken  this  lime." 

A  ilush  rises  to  Leo's  dusk,  mignonne  face.  Slio 
does  not  ihaidc  him  for  his  floral  olTering  other  than 
by  that  tteeting  blush,  but  she  buries  her  pretty  liltlo 
nose  in  their  sweetness,  and  gives  then»  a  surrejditioua 
kiss,  a  littlu  for  themselves,  a  great  deal  for  their 
giver. 

"  I  will  sing  whatever  you  like,"  she  f.ays,  in  that 
shy,  swGot  way  of  hers.  "  I  sing  all  Claribel's  sojigs, 
and  like  them  best — they  are  so  simple,  you  know,  and 
so,  just  suited  to  me." 

"  So  sweet,  you  know,  and  so  suited  to  you,"  amends 
Livingston,  rallying,  and  dropping  into  this  sort  of 
thing  from  sheer  force  of  habit. 

"Shall  we  have  lights?"  Leo  a?ks. 

The  half-light  is  charming  ;  his  presence  sets  every 
little  youthful  nerve  thrilling  as  he  leans,  tall  and  dark, 
against  the  piano. 

"  Not  unless  you  wish  it.  I  like  this  hour  '  'tWMxt 
the  gloaming  and  the  mirk,'  as  the  Scotch  say.  Can 
you  not  sing  frora  memory? 

"Oh,  yes," Leo  answers,  and  sings.  It  is  another 
of  Claribel's  ;  not  sad  this  time,  but  with  a  gay,  lilting 
refrain  : 


ja  Vent- 
and  a|)« 

-smilitiLf. 

Iicy  used 

VoU   M'U 

I'W  tird  of 
(juito    so 

t*(\  SIio 
lior  llian 
Ity  littlo 
ojditious 
'or   their 

1,  in  tiiat 

's  songs, 

o\v,  and 

amoiida 
sort  of 


ts  every 
nd  dark, 


'  'twixt 
Can 


V 


anotlier 
',  lilting 


HOW    JOANNA    CAMK    HACK. 


*'An(l  I  will  marry  my  !iii)  love, 
For  true  of  licarL  am  I." 


335 


*' Truo  of  hcMit  ! "  Liviiiujston  thinks;  "true  of 
heaiM  I"  Ts  it  in  him  to  ho  that  to  any  onu  ?  he  won- 
ders. It  IS  a  nohio  <|iiaUty,  Initli  of  licart  ;  hut  nohlo 
(jnalitit'S  seoru  to  havo  shakcii  iiands  and  partuil  from 
him  of  late. 

It  is  precisely  live  days  since  he  first  came  to  the 
Lamar  cottage,  days  tiiat  have  llown  so  pK'asantly  that 
their  ilight  has  heen  nnfelf.  All  his  life  is  ahoiit  to  he 
changed  ;  on  the  hrink  of  that  snpreme  chnMge  he 
may  siirtdy  linger  for  a  moment,  Syharile  that  he  is, 
looking  neither  hack  ward  noi-  forward.  l>ut  the  hrief 
respite  is  at  an  end  ;  this  is  the  close  of  the  last  d:iy. 

"  JSitjg  '  Robin  Adair,' "  he  says,  in  the  pause  that 
follows  ;  "you  used  to  sing  it  long  ago  ;  and  1  will  I'e- 
turn  to  Geofr  and  smoke  while  I  listen.  It  will  he  my 
parting  remembrance  of  you — this  twilit  room,  and 
the  words  of  the  old  Scotch  song." 

"Your  parting  !"  she  exclaims.  The  little  brown 
hands  on  the  keys  falter  and  fall,  in  the  dusk  ;  the 
small  face  wdiitens.     "  What  do  you  mean  r"' 

"That  I  tear  myself  away  from  this  enchanted 
spot,  this  'Island  of  Tranquil  Delights,'  to-morrow 
morning  by  the  9.50  train  ;  and  '  Robin  Adair '  shall 
speed  the  parting  guest.  Ah,  little  Loo,  it  is  five  long 
summer  days  since  I  came,  and  the  good  days  of  this 
life  are  not  long-lived.  ^ly  pleasant  visit  is  ended  ; 
to-morrow  I  go  back  to  grim  reality,  to  grim  duty,  to 
grim  New  York.  I  will  carry  this  picture  with  me, 
and  paint  it  some  day — this  half-lit  interior,  this  open 
piano,  and — you.  Ah,  little  Leo  !  little  Leo  !  believe 
me,  I  am  sorry  to  go." 


H 


<JB% 


i 


:       i 


i 

i 


r 


336 


HOW   JOANNA   CAME   BACK. 


And  tlion  he  stops  suddonly,  and  goes  off  to  Geof- 
frey and  liis  cigar;  and  little  Loo  is  left  to  realize  the 
Hwift,  startling  truth  that  her  heart  will  go  with  him 
to  New  York  or  wherever  he  chooses  to  take  it,  and 
that  she  will  foUow  her  heart,  oh,  so  gladly  !  so 
lovingly  !  if  that  blissful  day  ever  comes  when  he 
will  ask  her.  But  just  at  jiresent  she  is  a  maiden  un- 
asked, and  her  duty  is  to  he  "  plucky,"  and  sing  "  Robin 
Adair,"  while  he  smokes  over  there  in  the  garden  chair. 

And  she  does  it  bravely,  too,  to  the  end.  If  the 
sweet  voice  is  low,  it  is  always  low  ;  if  it  falters,  it  is 
a  pathetic  little  ballad  ;  if  it  closes  with  somethitig 
like  a  sob,  the  lust  chord  of  the  accompaniment  drjwns 
that. 

The  summer  darkness  is  friendly  and  hides  much. 
But  she  sings  no  more.  She  comes  close  to  her  brother 
and,  sitting  on  a  low  stool,  nestles  her  head  against 
his  knee,  lie  lays  his  hand  lightly  on  that  dark, 
drooping  Iiead. 

"Tired,  little  Leo?"  he  says,  gently.  "Does  the 
ankle  hurt  ?" 

"A  little,"  slic  answers,  in  a  stifled  voice. 

Opposite,  Livingston  sits  smoking,  silent,  dark,  in 
deepest  shadow.  Overhead  there  is  a  primrose,  star-lit 
sky,  around  them  sleeping  flowers  and  fragrant  shrubs, 
summer  stillness,  a  faint  breeze,  aud  the  noise  and 
lights  of  the  great  city  afar  off. 

As  they  sit  there,  a  silent  trio,  Mrs.  Abbott— Lamar 
she  calls  herself  now — descends  and  joins  them.  She 
looks  very  frail  and  white,  but  the  rare  beauty  and 
stately  grace  remain. 

"  In  the  dark  ?"  she  says,  smiling.  "  Why  do  you 
not  light  the  parlor,  Leo,  aud  go  in  ?" 


il 


now   JOANNA   CAME   BACK. 


337 


the 


[rk,  in 
iar-lit 
irub8, 
and 

liamar 
She 
and 

yoo 


"It  is  pleasanter  here,  mother,"  says  lier  son,  hrinj*- 
ing  forward  a  cliair.  *'  Have  you  a  wraj)  ?  Yes,  I  sec. 
Well,  sit  down  ;  it  is  a  lovely  night — let  us  enjoy 
it." 

Lot  us  crown  ourselves  with  roses  before  thev 


<<  < 


fade,'"  quotes  Livingston  out  of  the  dusk.    "  My  roses 
fade  with  this  evenijig.     To-morrow  I  go,  and   I  shall 


tin 


►f 


e  of  the  pleasanlest 
visits  of  my  life." 

There  are  exclamations  from  Mrs.  Lamar  and 
Geoffrey.     Leo  says  not  a  word. 

"  So  soon  ?"  Mrs.  Lamar  says.    "  Oh  !  I  am  sorry." 

She  is  sorry.  It  has  seemed  wonderfully  good  to 
see  a  face  out  of  the  old  life — the  old  life  that  has  had 
its  pleasures  and  its  friendships,  as  well  as  its  bitter 
pain. 

"  Thank  you  for  saying  tliat,"  Frank  returns  ; 
"  thank  you  still  more  for  the  tone  of  sincerity  in 
which  it  is  said.  Mrs.  Lamar,  I  wish  you  would  do 
me  a  favor  ;  I  wish  you  would  let  Olga  Ventnor  come 
and  see  Leo." 

There  is  a  movement  in  the  quiet  figure  leaning 
against  Geoffrey's  knee,  but  she  does  not  speak. 

"Olga!"  the  lady  says,  startled.  "Oh!  indeed  1 
do  not  know.     All  that  is  at  an  end " 

"  You  have  chosen  that  it  shall  be,"  says  Frank  ; 
"  there  is  no  other  reason  why.  And  it  is  a  little  un- 
just to  Leo,  I  think.  She  has  no  friend  of  her  own 
age,  and — pardon  me — it  must  be  a  little  lonely  for 
her  sometimes." 

"No,  no — oh,  no!"  from  Leo;  "no,  no,  indeed, 
inarama.     Do  not  think  that." 

♦*And  Olga  is  dying  to  see  her,"  pursues  Living- 


338 


now   JOANNA    CAME   BACK. 


if  w 


ston,  unlieeding  ;  "  and  Olga  is  a  charming  girl,  I 
assure  yon.  Quite  all  slie  ])roniisc't!  to  be,  and  more. 
IIovv  often  have  I  heai'd  her  long  to  see  you  all  again  ! 
Come,  Mrs.  Abbott — come,  Lamar,  be  generous  to  old 
friends — say  she  may  come." 

*'  I  see  no  reason  why  she  may  not,"  Geoffrey 
answers,  slowly  ;  "  but  it  is  a  inatter  of  feeling  with 
my  mother,  and  one  for  her  decision  alone.  Would 
Miss  Ventnor  care  to  come  '?" 

"  Do  you  ask  that,  Lamar?  If  I  tell  her,  she  most 
assuredly  will  not  come  to  see  you.  Does  3'our  I'e- 
membrance  of  Olga  lead  you  to  think  she  is  one  of  the 
'out  of  sight,  out  of  mind'  friends?  You  hardly  do 
her  justice." 

"  You  are  her  loyal  knight,  at  least,"  Dr.  Lamar 
says,  and  laughs  a  little  constrainedly,  "  and  plead  her 
cause  well.  Will  congratulations  be  premature,  or  are 
they  an  old  story  by  this  time?  We  are  such  ancient 
friends  and  cronies  aV,  you  know,  that  it  is  not  imper- 
tinent to  ask." 

There  is  a  tremor  in  the  figure  leaning  against  his 
knee,  then  a  strained,  painful  hush,  in  which  she  can 
count  her  own  heart-buats.  A  brief  pause  follows  ; 
Livingston  removes  his  cigar  to  knock  off  the  ash  with 
care,  and  speaks  : 

"  If  you  mean  an  engagement  between  me  and  my 
cousin  Olga,  there  is  certainly  no  need  of  congratula- 
tion. We  are  not  engaged,  and  we  never  will  be. 
But  we  are  cxoellcnt  friends  and  cousins  all  the  same." 

"But  I  thouofht — we  all  thought,"  says  Mrs.  Ab- 
bott, surprised,  "that  it  was  an  understood  thing 
you  and  Olga  were  to  marry.  We  thought  the  fami- 
lies- 


)) 


now  JOAXXA   CAME  liACK. 


339 


','  ft 


girl,  1        ^ 
more. 
;i|j;ain  ! 
i  10  old 

k'offrcy 

ig  with 

\Vould 

he  most 
your  re- 
le  of  the 
ardly  do 

r.  Lamar 
^load  her 
•e,  or  are 
ancient 
imper- 

ainst  his 
she  can 
follows  ; 
ash  with 

and  my 
ijrratAila- 

will   be. 
le  same." 

Vlrs.  Ab- 

d    thing 
|he  fami- 


({ 


So  did   I, 


)» 


says 


Livin'jfsron,  witli  a  half   lansh, 


"and  on  that  hint  I  spake.  We  were  all  mistaken,  it 
seems.  Olga  thought  differently,  and  has  reserved 
herself  for  a  better  man." 

"Ah  !  and  that  better  man " 

"  Is  mythical  at  present — has  not  yet  put  in  an  ap- 
pearance. But  no  doubt  Ik;  will,  and  Olga  will  wait 
serenely,  although  it  should  be  a  score  of  years  hence. 
She  will  certainly  never  make  a  mistake  matrimonially. 
What  principally  concerns  me  is,  that  I  was  not  the 
man." 

There  is  a  pause.  Frank  resumes  his  cigar,  Leo's 
heart  its  wonted  beating,  but  Vv'ith  a  sudden  contrac- 
tion of  pain  that  she  cannot  define.  He  has  asked 
thei:,  and  been  refused. 

"Refused  I"  thinks  little  Leo,  looking  shyly  over 
at  him  in  the  dark  :  "  how  very  strange  !" 

"  She  has  had  many  offers,  no  doubt  ?"  says  Mrs. 
Abbott,  at  last.     "Olga  must  be  very  lovely.'' 

"  She  has  the  loveliest  face  ever  seen  out  of  a  picture 
or  a  dream,"  Frank  says,  but  he  says  it  without  one 
faintest  touch  of  enthusiasm.  "  Men  raved  about  her 
abroad.  She  has  been  painted  again  and  again — her 
beauty  is  almost  without  a  flaw.  But  you  w'ill  see  her 
for  yourself.  Only  say  the  word — she  will  be  but  too 
glad  to  come." 

"  Could  we  be  churlish  enough  to  refuse  ?  Yes, 
bring  her,  Frank,  dear,  fair,  little  Princess  Olga  !  It 
is  good  of  her  to  remember  us  all  so  long." 

"  Five  years  is  not  an  eternity,  Mrs.  Abbott.  And 
I  doubt  if  fifty  would  enable  those  who  ever  knew  to 
forget  1/OH." 

Mrs.  Abbott  smiles. 


.,1 


ill; 


340 


now  JOANN^A  CAME   BACK. 


"My  dear  Frank,  you  are  as  charming  as  ever 
You  always  had  a  faculty  for  saying  nice  things.  1 
am  afraid  you  are  a  flirt — I  think,  indeed,  I  have 
heard  it  whispered  that  you  always  M'ere.  Leo,  do 
you  not  hear  ?  Have  you  nothing  to  say  ?  Olga  will 
come." 

"  I  am  glad,  mamma." 

"  Only  that,  and  you  are  generally  so  enthusiastic  ! 
You  are  strangely  quiet  to-night.  Are  you  in  pain? 
Your  ankle- 


» 


"  Oh,  it  is  all  right,  mamma,"  poor  little  Leo  cries 
out. 

In  pain — yes — but  the  pain  is  not  in  anything  so 
unromantic  as  an  ankle.  If  he  is  not  engaged  to  Olga, 
what  then  is  the  matter?  Is  it  that  her  refusal  has 
hurt  him  so  deeply,  in  spite  of  his  forced  lightness  of 
manner  ? 

"  There  is  another  friend  of  the  past,"  Dr.  Lamar 
says  slowly,  after  a  silence,  "whom  I  suppose  you 
have  never  met  in  all  your  wanderings  up  and  down 
the  world.     I  mean  Joanna  !" 

The  name  falls  so  unexpectedly,  that  all  start  at  its 
sound.     Livingston  in  the  darkness  turns  quite  white. 

"  Why  do  you  suppose  so  ?"  he  answers,  and  his 
voice  is  not  quite  steady.     "  I  have  met  Joanna  !" 

There  is  a  universal  exclamation. 

Dr.  Lamar  starts  to  his  feet,  his  mother  clasps  her 
hands,  Leo  sits  erect,  and  looks  eagerly. 

"You  have  met  her!"    Geoffrey  cries,  excitedly. 

)u  know  where  she  is  1     Mother, 


« 


At  last !" 


y 


"I  have  met  her — I  know  where  she  is,"  Living- 
ston answers,  surprised  at  the  amount  of  excitement 


now   JOANNA    CAME   BACK. 


341 


ever 
gs.     1 
have 

ra  will 


iastic  ! 
pain? 

0  cries 

litipj  so 
o  Olga, 
sal  lias 
ness  of 

jarnar 
(se  you 
down 

at  its 
white, 
md  his 

• 

?ps  her 

jiteclly. 
this? 

jiving- 
Itement 


they  showed;    "is  tliere   anything   extraordinary   in 


rjM 


that 

"  There  is  this — that  I  have  searched,  and  caused 
search  to  bo  made  everywhere  all  those  years  in  vain. 
I  had  almost  made  up  my  mind  she  was  dead — so 
impossible  has  she  been  to  discover.  And  all  this 
time  you  have  known  whore  she  was " 

"Not  all  this  time,  if  you  mean  these  six  past 
years — only  within  the  past  two  months,"  says  Frank, 
feeling  oddly  cold  and  conscious,  and  wondering  what 
they  would  say  if  they  knew. 

"And  where  is  she?     In  New  York?" 

"  At  Newport,  I  think,  just  now.  How  exercised 
you  are  over  the  matter,  Lamar.  I  always  knew,  of 
course- 


5> 


"My  dear  fellow,  you  know  nothing,  absolutely 
nothing,  of  the  truth.  It  is  the  most  important  con- 
cern of  my  life  to  find  Joanna.  She  is  safe  and  well, 
and  married  to  Blake  ?" 

"  Safe  and  well,  but  not  married  to  Blake,  or  any- 
body else." 

"  What !  She  ran  away  with  him,  you  know " 

"  I  know,"  Frank  says,  wincing;  "  but  she  ran 
away  from  him,  as  you  must  recall,  after." 

"It  was  true,  then?  Odd  girl — strange,  wild 
Joanna  !  And  what  became  of  her — what  did  she  do  ? 
No  harm  befell  her,  I  trust  ?" 

"  None  whatever,  but  much  good.  She  found 
friends,  honest  and  real  friends,  and  she  has  worked 
her  way  to  comparative  fame  and  fortune.  She  is 
wild  Joanna  no  longer.  Slie  is  a  refined  and  thoroughly 
well-bred  young  lady,  with  gracious  manners,  and  all 
womanly  sweetness,  and  goodness,  and  grace." 


I 


^vff' 


i 

1 

i', 

'k' 

»      ' 

li' 

\i 

•  * 


m 


342 


now  JOANNA   CAME  BACK. 


lie  speaks  warml}-,  his  handsome  face  flushes  in 
the  dark. 

"Thank  Heaven  I"  he  hears  Mrs.  Abbott  raurmur, 
and  Geoffrey,  too,  seems  deeply  moved. 

"  I  am  more  thankful  than  I  can  say,"  he  says, 
after  3,  little.  "I  always  knew  the  elements  of  a  noble 
character  were  there,  crushed,  warped,  as  they  liad 
been.  Thank  Heaven,  indeed  !  But  tell  us  about  her, 
Frank.  You  can  form  no  id<»a  of  how  deeply  we  are 
all  interested  in  the  well-beini^and  history  of  Joanna," 

So  Frank  tell  it.  Out  there,  in  the  sweet  summer 
dark,  he  tells  the  story  of  provocation,  and  rejjrisal, 
and  flight,  and  pain,  and  struggle,  and  hardly-won 
victory.  Joanna  has  told  it  to  him — simply,  uncon- 
scious of  its  real  pathos — and  he  repeats  it  tenderly, 
dwelling  on  all  her  goodness,  her  free  generosity,  her 
brave  great-heartedriess,  her  bounty  to  all  weak, 
oppressed,  and  suffering  things. 

"  She  gives  like  a  princess,  freely,  with  both  hands, 
to  all  who  need,"  he  says.  "I  know  that  the  dearest 
desire  of  her  heart  is  to  see  you  all  again.  She  speaks 
very  little  of  herself,  but  that  much  I  know." 

"Will  you  bring  her  to  us?"  Mrs.  Abbott  says, 
with  repressed  eagerness,  great  tears  in  her  eyes. 
"  Oh,  ray  poor  Joanna  !  my  poor,  wronged,  ill-treated 
child  !  Bring  her  to  us,  Frank,  at  once,  at  once  ! 
Geoffrey,  you  cannot  go  for  her,  I  know — if  you 
could " 

"  Quite  impossible,  mother,  quite  unnecessary  also. 
Livingston  will  tell  her  and  she  will  come.  I  will  write 
to-night  and  say — well,  something  of  what  there  is  to 
be  said — and  she  will  come.  The  rest  she  can  learn 
here.     Frank,  you  have  done  us  to-night  a  service  for 


now   JOANNA    CAME   BACK. 


343 


es  in 
rmur, 

says, 
noble 
y  had 
it  her, 
re  are 
inna." 
immer 
prisal, 
ly-won 
uncon- 
ulerly, 
ty,  her 

weak, 

hands, 
learest 
speaks 

says, 

eyes. 

treated 


once 


f 


lif  you 


also. 

write 

is  to 

learn 


wliieli  I  thank  you  with   all  my  heart.     You  do  not 
understand  now,  hut  you  will  later.    Get  in  lights,  Leo. 


Ice 


for 


I  will  write  my  letter  at  once,  before  I  am  called 
away." 

So  they  leave  the  sweet-smellinjv  garden,  and  the 
starry  sky,  and  go  in.  Lights  are  brought.  Geoffrey 
sits  down  to  write,  Mrs.  Abbott  goes  to  the  piano  and 
playp  dreaniv  sonatas,  Leo  gets  some  needlework, 
Frank  sits  near,  with  the  paper  Geoffrey  has  thrown 
down,  and  says  little.  Presently  it  is  eleven,  and  the 
letter  is  finished — a  very  long  one,  and  it  is  bedtime, 
and  they  all  stand  up  to  say  good-night  and  good-by. 

"  But  you  will  soon  return  with  Olga?"  Mrs.  Ab- 
bott says. 

"Olga  will  soon  be  here,"  he  answers,  with  a  smile, 
but  Leo  noti^.es  he  says  nothing  about  accompanying 
lier.  Then  it  is  her  turn,  and  those  two  hard  words, 
"good-by,"  are  spoken,  and  his  visit  has  come  to  an 
end. 

He  *  «  ♦  *  * 

"  A  gentleman  for  you.  Miss  Jenny."  ITer  maid 
hands  her  a  card.  Joanna  looks  at  it,  and  her  face 
flushes.    Frank  returned. 

She  is  alone  in  her  room.  A  week  has  passed  since 
Jud  Sleaford  told  her  his  story,  and  no  action  has  been 
taken  yet.  She  hardly  knows  why  she  waits,  but  it  is 
for  Livingston's  return,  and  now  the  week  is  up,  and  he 
is  here.  She  goes  swiftly  to  where  he  waits,  and  he 
comes  forward,  both  hands  outstretched. 

"You  did  not  expect  me  so  soon  ?"  he  says,  the 
first  salutation  over.  "No,  I  know.  But  the  oddest 
thing  has  happened  Whom  do  you  think  I  have 
met  y" 


n 


3!  f  IH' 


1   it 


if 


844 


now  JOANNA    CAME   BACK. 


She  has  no  idea,  slio  says,  and  smiles  at  the  bright 
eagerness  of  his  face. 

"  Leo  Abbott — Gooff — their  motlier — and  I  have 
been  stopping  with  them  ever  since." 

"  Frank  !" 

"  I  thought  yon  would  be  astounded.  You  cannot 
be  more  duligliled  than  they  were,  when  they  found 
out  I  knew  you,  and  wliere  you  were.  Tliey  liave 
been  k)oking  for  you,  it  appears,  all  this  time.  You 
know  they  have  given  up  everything — the  Abbott 
property,  I  mean — and  Gc<^ffrey  sn])ports  them  by  his 
profession.  They  are  living  in  comparative  poverty 
and  obscurity,  but  are  one  and  all  as  <lelightful  people 
as  ever.  Here  is  an  epistle  for  you,  from  GeolT,  long 
enough  to  make  one  jealous,  and,  Joanna,  they  count 
upon  your  going  to  them  at  once." 

She  takes  the  large  letter,  and  looks  at  the  clear, 
bold,  familiar  writing. 

"I  thank  God,"  she  says,  softly,  "I  have  got  the 
desire  of  my  heart.  And  I  thank  you,  Frank,  for 
being  the  bearer  of  good  news.  And  you  have  been 
there  ever  since  ?" 

"My  mother  had  gone,"  lie  says,  hastily.  "She 
had  left  for  Saratoga  before  I  left  New  York.  I 
mean  to  go  after  her  there  at  once.  It  reminds  one  of 
*Japhetin  Search  of  a  Father,' and  seems  almost  as 
fruitless  a  search,"  he  laughs. 

"  Do  not,"  she  interposes,  and  lays  her  hand  on  his 
arm,  "  as  a  favor   to    me — at   least   not    yet.     Wait, 
Tell  me  about  them.     Is  Leo  pretty  ?  " 
"  Very  pretty." 
She  glances  at  him  a  moment. 
"  And  Mrs.  Abbott  ?  "  she  says,  then. 


HOW  JOANNA   CAME   HACK. 


345 


aright 


have 


:;annot 
found 
r  have 
You 
Vhbott 
by  his 
lovcrty 
pt'ople 
IT,  long 
\f  count 


}  cl 


car, 


[ot  the 

Ilk,  for 

e  been 

"  She 

Irk.      I 

one  of 

tost  aa 

on  his 
Wait. 


"As  beautiful  as  ever,  but  less  proud,  loss  cold. 
You  know  what  I  mean.  As  for  (rcoff — dear  old  fcl- 
]ow,  ]iv  is  looking  splendidly.  ISIkiH  you  go  at  once, 
Joanini?  They  will  literally  be  in  a  fever,  I  (liink, 
until  vou  are  with  them." 

"  I  will  go  to-morrow." 

"And  I  may  at^conipany  you,  of  course?  Then  I 
must  inform  Olga,  who  wislies  to  visit  them  too.  They 
will  owe  me  a  vote  of  thanks,  I  fancy,  for  restoring 
them  to  their  friends." 

"  Go  for  your  cousin  at  once,  for  I  intend  to  go 
alone.  Yes  ;  I  will  have  it  so.  I  prefer  it.  Do  you 
think  I  cannot  travel  alone?"  laughing,  and  lifting 
her  brave,  bright  (nvo.  "Have  you  yet  to  learn  I  am 
8trot)g-minded,  ami  amply  sufficient  unto  myself? 
And,  Frank,  do  not  tell  your  cousin  any  more  than 
yotir  mother.     Tell  no  one  until  I  give  you  leave." 

"But,  Joanna "he  is   beginning,  impetuously, 

when  Professor  Ericson  enters,  and  cuts  him  short. 
Joanna  informs  iiim  of  to-morrow's  journey,  and  that 
Mr.  Livingston  will  dine  with  him,  and  so  his  oppor- 
tunity is  gone. 

He  dines  and  spends  the  evening,  but  he  does  not 
see  Joanna  for  a  moment  alone.  And  next  day  she 
departs,  holding  to  her  resolution  to  go  unescorted. 
He  sees  her  off,  and  takes  the  train  for  Brightbrook 
and  his  cousin  Oiga.  Will  they  meet,  lie  wonders, 
these  two,  at  the  Lamar  cottage,  and  if  so,  how  ? 
Will  Olga  be  simply,  chillingly  civil  ?  And  how  is  it 
that  Lamar  and  his  mother  take  the  finding  of  Joanna 
so  greatly  to  heart  ? 

In  the  late  afternoon  of  that  day  a  cab  sets  Joanna 
down  in  front  of  the  Lamar  cottage.  They  have  not 
15* 


I 


-I     f 


346 


now   JOANNA    PAID   HEU  DEBT. 


ex[)octO(1  her  so  soon,  and  Mrs.  Abliott  alone  is  in  tlio 
liouse.  As  slic  sits  the  dooi*  ojkmis,  a  tall  young  la<ly 
enters  luirrii'dly,  and  falls  on  lu-r  knees  beside  her,  and 
clasps  lur  in  lier  arms. 

"]\Irs.  Abbott,"  ilio  familiar  voieo  cries,  "it  is  I. 
Oh  !  my  fiiend,  kindest,  truest,  <learest,  best,  look  at 
me — bi<l  !ne  welcome — say  you  forgive  me — say  you 
are  glad  to  see  lue.     It  is  I — Joanna-  -come  back." 


-»♦♦- 


CHAPTER  IX. 


SI 


£ !  'H 


HOW   JOANNA    PAID   HER   DEBT. 

TIEY  sit  in  the  half-lit  parlor,  the  lights 
turned  low  under  shades,  and  Joanna 
listens  once  more  to  the  story  Jud  Sleaford 
has  told.  II"r  hand  is  clasped  in  Mrs. 
Abbott's,  Leo  nestles  beside  her  after  her  usual  cling- 
ing, childish  fashion,  and  GeolTrey  is  the  narrator. 
No  sound  disturbs  hirn,  there  are  tears  in  his  mother's 
dark  eyes,  otherwise  she  is  calm.  In  the  startled  eyes 
of  little  Leo  there  are  wonder  and  fear,  but  she  savs 
nothing,  although  what  she  hears  now  she  hears  for  the 
first  time.  For  Joanna,  she  sits  quite  still,  quite  calm, 
and  listens  to  the  end.  Even  then  there  is  not  much 
said — there  is  not  much  that  it  is  easy  to  say.  Leo 
buries  her  face  in  Joanna's  lap,  and  is  sobbing  softly. 
Oh,  how  could  papa — how   could   he — how  could 


« 


he  ?" 

It  is  not  in  that  tender  little  heart  to  blame  any 
one  too  hardl}'.  She  is  afraid  to  look  at  her  mother, 
at  Joanna,  her  sister,  both  so  deeply  wronged.     Ilei 


in  tho 
r,  luitl 
,  is  T. 


y  ) 

.    '5 


•ou 


now   JOANNA    PAID    IIKIJ   DKHT, 


347 


lijTflita 
Joanna 
loaford 
n  Mrs. 
1  clinuj- 
Lvrator. 
lother'a 
mI  eyes 
\e  savs 
for  the 
calm, 
ninch 
Leo 
oftly. 
could 

le  finy 

[lotlier, 

Ilei 


sister,  liovv  strange  tliat  thought,  A  thrill  of  gladness 
goes  throJigh  her  as  she  clasps  her  closer  in  her  anus. 
She  has  grown  so  famous,  she  bears  herself  so  nobly  — 
it  almost  compensates.  And  slu;  will  be  a  great  heiress 
— JoaiMia — it  is  her  birthright,  all  that  splendor  and 
luxury — beautiful,  lost  Abbott  Wood. 

Ah,  hei"  heart  aches  for  Abbott  Wood  often  and 
often,  her  fair,  stately  home,  down  by  the  sea.  All  is 
Joanna's  now.  Not  one  spark  of  envy  or  jealouH 
grudging  is  in  iier — all  good  fortune  that  can  befal' 
her  Joanna  deserves,  has  bravely  earned.  7Vici/  were 
the  usurpers,  and  held  from  her  for  years  what  should 
liave  been  liers.  Her  ov  n  sister!  How  good,  how 
comforting  is  that  thought.  She  has  never  felt  the 
need  of  a  sister,  mamma  and  (ireolfrey  have  always 
sutticed,  but  it  is  a  rare  and  sweet  delight  to  lind  one 
at  this  late  day.  And  this  is  why  everything  had  to 
be  given  up,  why  mamma  took  her  former  name,  why 
papa  shot  himself. 

"  Poor  papa  !  he  used  to  be  so  fond  of  his  little 
Leo." 

She  sobs  on,  her  face  hidden,  the  sobs  stifled  in 
Joanna's  lap.  No  one  has  a  tear  for  the  dead  sinner 
but  tender-hearted  little  Leo. 

All  this  time  they  have  been  talking,  brokenly,  dis- 
connectedly, but  Leo  has  not  been  listening.  She  has 
only  been  hearkening  to  her  own  thoughts.  Now 
Joanna  gently  lifts  the  bowed  dark  head. 

"  Crying,  little  Leo?  Why,  I  wonder?  Surely 
not  because  poor  Joanna  is  your  sisi'jr  ?  Ah,  my  dar- 
ling, it  is  the  one  bright,  bright  spot  in  all  this  dark- 
ness, and  sorrow,  and  sin." 

Oh,  my  dear  I  my  dear  !"  Leo  says,  flinging  her 


ti 


/ ' ' ' 


848 


now   JOANNA    PAID   11 KR   DKHT. 


¥ 


ii 


arm  H  about  licr,  "do  yon  not  know  I  feci  that?  I 
th.ink  iho  <];o(kI  God  for  ^Mvini;  mu  so  great  a  gift.  I 
lovo  you,  Joanna — no  sister  was  ever  more  dear,  but 
I  cannot  help  thinking  of — of  hun,  llo  was  fond  of 
mo,  you  know." 

She  droops  her  face  again,  crying  with  all  her  heart. 

"Fond  of  you,  my  little  one?"  Joanna  says,  her 
own  eyes  moist.  "  I  wonder  w!i0  would  not  be  fond 
of  you?  And  wo  all  love  you  the  better  for  those 
tears.  j>ut  you " — Joanna  lays  her  hand  on  INIrs. 
Abbott's,  and  looks  up  with  wondering  eyes  into  her 
calm  face — "how  you  bear  it.  I  wonder  as  1  look  at 
you.     And  you  used  to  be  so " 

"So  proud,  so  imperious,  so  exacting,  so  haughty. 
Ah,  say  it,  Joanna  !  Do  I  not  know  it  well  ?  I  needed 
the  lesson  I  have  received — the  only  blow,  I  believe, 
that  could  have  humbled  mc.  All  other  things — sick- 
ness, poverty,  death  itself — I  could  have  borne  and 
kept  my  pride  ;  this  I  could  not.  Pride  had  to  fall. 
I  bore  it  badly  enough  at  first — in  agony,  in  rebellion, 
in  despair.  I  wottld  not  believe  such  shame,  such  dis- 
grace, could  touch  me.  I  lay  for  weeks  at  death's  door. 
I  was  wicked  enough  to  wish  to  die.  But  all  that  is  a 
memory  of  the  past  now  ;  I  am  happy — yes,  quite 
happy,  Joanna,  with  a  deeper,  and  a  truer,  and  more 
lasting  happiness.  Do  you  remember  the  ninth  Beati- 
tude of  St.  Francis  de  Sales — 'Blessed  are  the  hearts 
that  bend,  for  they  shall  never  break.'  I  have  no  fear 
of  a  broken  heart,  now." 

Joanna  stoops  and  touches,  with  loving  lips,  the 
worn,  white,  thin  hand. 

"And  now."  Geoffrey  says,  briskly,  coming  back 
to  the  practical,  "  there  is  nothing  for  you  to  do  but 


now   JOANXA    PAID    HER   DEBT. 


349 


111? 

I 

rift. 

I 

lU",      1 

)Ut 

oml  of 


Y  hoait. 


y 


s. 


her 


)0   foinl 
>r  those 

nto  her 
look  at 

langhty. 
[  needed 
believe, 
\s — sick- 
nie  and 
to  fall, 
'hellion, 
uch  dis- 
'a  door, 
hat  is  a 
s,  quite 
d  more 
1  Beati- 
hearts 
no  fear 

|ips,  the 

\cr  hack 
do  but 


to  step  into  the  |>roj)erty,  aixl  take  the  reins  of  ujov- 
erinnent  out  of  the  hands  of  Ulakslcy  &  iJiid.  'I'hey 
have  managed  the  esliite  very  well  in  all  these  years, 
an<l  your  income  must  have  aceumuhited  like  a  rolling 
goMeii  river.  What  a  » ieh  young  person  you  are,  Jo- 
anna— (piite  a  modern  ^lademoiselle  Fifty  Millions! 
An<l  yet  how  (piietly  you  sit  there  ami  take  it  all." 

Dr.  Lamar  sa}r,  this  in  rather  an  injured  tone.  Jo- 
anna laugits. 

"  What  would  you  have  ?"  she  says;  "  that  I  should 
throw  up  my  iiat  aiid  hurrah  ?  We  don't  do  ^liat  when 
we  come  into  a  fortune — theluek  is  somethingtoo  solid 
and  suhstanlial.  Jlesitles,  it  conies  to  me  so — well,  not 
pleasantly.  It  is  not  a  comfortal  le  retiection,  tliat  llio 
best,  the  dearest  friends  ever  foilorn  waif  found  in 
her  need,  aro  thrust  out  to  make  room  for — I  had  al- 
most said,  the  viper  they  had  nojirished.  It  takes  all 
heart  out  of  your  millions,  Geoffrey." 

"Oh  !  if  you  look  at  it  in  hat  light,"  says  Geoffrey, 
coolly;  "being  a  woman,  of  course  you  will  take  the 
romantic  and  unpractical  side  of  it  first.  But  having 
taken  it,  look  at  the  other — at  the  birthright  usurped 
for  years.  And  as  our  going  out  was  inevitable,  you 
must  know  what  ap delight  it  will  be  to  us  all  to  see 
you  step  in  and  reign  at  Abbott  Wood  instead  of  a 
stranger.  You  have  grown  such  a  regal-looking  young 
woman,  Joanna,  that  you  will  grace  the  position  and 
the  house.  I  know  of  no  one,"  says  Dr.  Lamar,  makir)g 
a  courtly  bow,  which  includes  the  two  ladies,  "so  fit- 
ted, in  mind  and  person,  to  succeed  its  late  illustrious 
chatelaine  !" 

They  laugh,  and  all  restraint  and  embarrassment 
fly.     Time  has  so  softened  the  past,  so  blunted  the 


■  ^^-r 


n1 


if 


m 


350 


HOW  JOANNA   PAID   IIKU  DEBT. 


1  f 

1 '  '( 

i  ^ 

i   ' 

^«l 


pain,  that  they  can  bear  to  talk  of  it  all  with  hardly 
a  pantj^. 

"  We  have  kept  it  a  secret  hitherto,  even  from 
Leo,"  says  Geoffrey,  "  because,  until  you  were  found, 
nothing  could  be  gaijied  by  telling.  Kow,  everything 
had  better  be  told,  and  the  so^u'r  you  are  installed  at 
Abbott  Wood  the  better.  What  are  your  plans, 
Joanna?  Whatever  thev  are,  for  the  future  remem- 
ber  you  are  to  coninnuid  me.  I  consider  myself  quite 
as  much  your  brother  as  Leo  ia  your       ter." 

She  stretches  out  her  hand. 

"  JMore  than  brothf-r  always,  Geoffrey — best  and 
fitanchest  of  friends.  And  so  I  may  command  you  in 
all  things?     You  promise  t'ais?"  « 

"Undoubtedly — in  all  things." 

"Very  well — the  first  cominand  I  issue  is,  that  you 
M'ill  not  say  one  word  of  this  to  any  one.  To  the  law- 
yers,  if  you  like,  but  make  them  the  only  exceptions. 
Jlot  one  word,  remember,  to  finy  living  soul." 

"  13ut,  my  dear  Joanna " 

"  But,  my  dear  Geoffrey,  you  have  pledged  your- 
sidf  blindly  to  obey,  and  must  abide  that  rash  promise. 
1  will  it  so." 

"And  Joanna  is  queen  regnant  n^w,  it  must  be 'as 
the  queen  wills  !'"  cries  Leo,  gayly. 

"  Well — if  I  must,  I  must,  but  I  see  no  sense  in  it. 
And  your  plans?  for  that  is  not  one.  But  perhaps  it 
is  too  early  for  you  to  have  formed  any." 

"No — my  plans,  such  as  thoy  are,  are  formed,  and 
are  few,  and  simple  enough.  Li  the  (Irst  place,  I  leave 
the  stage." 


<( 


Of  course  !"  promptly — "  that  goes  without  say 


111  2 


» 


now   JOANiXA    PAID   HER   DEBT. 


35] 


hardly 

1  from 
fouiul, 
•ything 
lUod  at 
plans, 
rcmem- 
f  quite 


[»st  and 
you  in 

hat  you 

he  law- 

plions. 

1  yonr- 
roiuise. 

t  be  *  as 

e  in  it. 


laps 


It 


M,  and 
leave 


it  say 


"In  the  second,"  smiling,  "I  stay  here  a  week  oi 
two,  with  you  all,  if  yon  will  have  me." 

"  If  we  will  have  her — oh  !"  says  Leo,  opening 
wide  her  velvety  eyes. 

"  Then  I  start  for  San  Francisco,  escorted  by  my 
dear  old  professor,  who  would  escort  me  to  the  world's 
end,  at  an  hour's  notice,  and  take  my  mother,  my  poor 
mother,  out  of  her  prison  of  years." 

"Good  child,"  says  Mrs.  Abbott.  "You  will  find 
her  well,  too.  Geoffrey  had  a  letter  from  the  doctor, 
only  a  fortnight  ago,  saying  so,  and  saying  she  still 
keeps  calling  for  you.  Ah  !  Joanna,  that  fatal  for- 
tune will  do  some  good  after  all — it  will  rescue  her." 

"In  Joanna's  hands  it  will  do  much  good,"  says 
Geoffrey,  with  decision.    "  Well,  and  after  that?" 

"After  that— after  that  the  deluge!  I  hardly 
know.  Thus  far  I  have  planned,  and  no  farther.  I 
do  not  quite  realize  it  all  yet.  My  plans  and  want?! 
will  increase,  I  sujipose,  as  I  do.  But  oh  !  through  it 
all,  this  fairy  fortune — this  strange,  tragical  story, 
there  is  one  thing  I  do  realize  to  my  heart's  core — how 
glad  I  am  to  be  with  you  all  again.  What  would  it  all 
avail  but  for  your  goodness  in  the  past.  Geoffrey,  my 
first  friend,  I  cannot  thank  you — indeed,  I  will  not 
try — but  you  know,  j'ou  know  what  I  feel  !  And  Leo 
is  my  sister — my  very,  very  own  sister.  It  is  better 
than  a  score  of  fortunes.  And  you  !"  she  puts  her 
arms  suddenly  about  Mrs.  Abbott,  "my  dearest  !  my 
dearest,  my  more  than  mother,  how  good  you  were  to 
me,  in  those  long  gone  days.  Your  lessons  of  love,  of 
patience,  of  gentleness,  seenied  to  be  thrown  away 
then,  but  I  hoi>e — oh  !  I  hope,  they  have  come  back; 
aud  borne  fruit.     Nothing  good  is  ever  lost,  it  all  ro» 


■  J  if 


852 


HOW   JOANNA   PAID   HER   DEftl. 


turns  sooner  or  later.  I  liave  found  my  own  niotlier, 
but  I  can  never  love  lier  better  than  I  love  you." 

It  is  a  scene,  and  these  women  weep  tof^ether,  and 
when,  an  hour  later,  ^ood-nights  are  said,  it  is  a  very 
happy  little  household  that  retires  to  sleep. 

JJut  .Joanna  does  not  sleep — at  least  for  hours.  Sho 
is  excited,  she  wants  to  be  alone,  to  think.  She  has 
the  room  lately  vacated  by  Livingston.  Some  relics 
of  him  yet  remain — a  glove  on  the  table,  a  flower 
given  him  by  Leo,  dead  and  dry  on  the  window-sill.  It 
is  of  him  she  is  thiid<ing — he  is  rarely  absent  long 
from  her  thoughts,  lit'  is  coming  to-morrow  with  his 
cousin  Olga.  He  must  not  know,  not  yet,  not  yet.  In 
these  dim  plans  of  hers  for  the  future,  his  figure  does 
not  appear  ;  she  trie-  to  plac»»  him  there,  but  she  can- 
not. A  week  with  Leo,  and  already  the  abrupt  men- 
tion of  his  name  seiids  a  flush  into  the  dark,  mignonne 
face.  Is  it  so,  then  ?  And  he  ?  She  is  the  sweetest 
little  blossom  possible,  a  tender,  gentle,  adoring  little 
heart,  the  sort  to  sit  at  her  husband's  feet,  and  worship, 
and  see  no  faults.  No,  im  the  picture  of  her  future, 
Joatma  cannot  fancy  him,  try  as  she  may. 

Next  day  he  comes,  and  with  hiin  Objra  Ventnor. 


lay 


o" 


Dr.  Lamar  is  very  busy  .«  those  days,  and  disease 
and  death  are  very  busy,  too,  in  the  city. 

He  and  they  do  battle  by  day  and  hy  night;  he  lias 
verj'  little  time  to  give  them  at  jjom<^.  Fever  is  spread- 
ing and  w*'i\\  not  bo  stamped  out  ;  the  weather  is  hot, 
damp,  murky,  oppressive — real  fever  weather,  and  in 
the  pestilential  purlieus  many  Vy^  ill  unto  death  these 
July  days.  He  is  indefatigable  Jm  his  profession,  he 
seems  to  live  in  his  carr'age,  he  bt^^ins  to  look  fagged 
and  worn,  strong  and  rotyt^t  as  he  is,  splendid  in  his 


iiii' 


mother, 


u." 

licr,  and 

is  a  very 

urs.    Sho 
She  h:\s 
iTie  relics 
a   flower 
w-sill.  It 
^ent  long 
with  his 
-»t  yet.  In 
gure  does 
t  she  can- 
•upt  men- 
Imiixnonno 
sweetest 
injr  little 
worship, 
T  future, 

entnor. 
d  disease 

it;  he  has 
is  spread- 
3r  is  iiot, 
r,  and  in 
ith  these 
'ssion,  he 
k  fagged 
[id  in  his 


HOW   JOANNA  PAID   HER  DEBT. 


353 


flawless  vitality.  His  mother  grows  anxious,  and  begs 
him  to  spare  himself,  hut  in  vnin. 

Coming  home  on  tliis  sultry  evening,  tired,  de- 
pressed, hungry,  out  of  sorts,  his  mind  filled  with  grim 
sick-rooms,  and  the  grim  faces  of  poverty  and  disease, 
he  sees  a  vision  !  Standing  in  the  parlor,  alone,  the 
last  light  full  upon  her,  dressed  in  some  gauzy,  silky 
robe,  that  floats  like  a  cloiid  softly  over  the  carpet, 
lier  golden  braids  twisted  coronet-fashion  around  her 
head,  a  diamond  star  flashing  at  her  throat,  he  sees — 
Olga. 

It  comes  npoji  him  like  a  shock,  a  shock  of  rapture. 
lie  lias  not  been  thinking  of  her  at  all,  and  she  is  be- 
fore him,  a  dream  of  light,  of  loveliness,  lie  stands 
quite  still,  quite  pale,  unable  for  a  moment  to  advance 
or  speak,  looking  at  her.  It  is  she  who  comes  for- 
ward, blushing  slightly,  smiling  and  holding  out  her 
hand. 

"Are  you  going  to  swoon  at  my  feet,  Dr.  Lamar? 
Do  not,  I  beg — I  wouki  not  know  in  the  least  how  to 
bring  you  to.  Yes,  it  is  I  in  the  flesh — Olga — shake 
liands  and  see.  How  unflattcringly  amazed  you  look, 
to  be  sure  !  And  yer,"  with  the  prettiest  of  pouts, 
"you  must  have  known  I  was  coming." 

"  I  had  forgotten,"  says  Dr.  Lamar. 

The  words  are  not  flattering,  but  he  still  holds  her 
hand,  and  gazes  at  her  as  though  he  could  never  gaze 
enough. 

"  Complimentary,  upon  my  word  !  But  it  is  just 
like  you  all — out  of  sight,  out  of  mind.  Leo  and  your 
mother  had  not  forgotten,  sir  !  ]Men  have  no  memories. 
Will  you  not  come  in  ?  The  house  is  thine  own — or  do 
you  mean  to  stand  staring  indefinitely.     You  remind 


ii'i 


I 


354 


now  JOANNA  PAID  HER  DEBT. 


me  of  tlio  country  swain,  who  siglied  and  looked, 
sijjfliod  an<l  looked,  sii^hod  and  looked,  and  looked 
aj^ain.  If  you  sicjli  and  look  into  the  dining-room  it 
will  he  more  to  the  pu  pose.  Your  dinner  is  waiting 
there,  an<l  your  mother  has  been  left  lamenting  over 
your  prolonged  absence,  and  the  fowl  that  is  spoiling 
while  it  waits." 

She  runs  on  gayly — sho  sees  all  the  surprise,  the 
admiration  in  his  face,  and  she  likes  it.  She  is  a  hero- 
worshiper,  this  fair,  white  Olga,  and  Geoffrey  Lamar 
is  her  latest  hero.  She  does  not  understand  very 
clearly,  but  for  honor's  sake  he  has  given  up  a  fortune, 
and  gone  out  single-handed  to  tight  with  fate,  lie  is 
a  hero  in  that  to  this  romantic  young  lady;  he  is  work- 
ing himself  to  death  among  the  poor  and  suffering, 
heedless  of  rest,  or  food,  or  comfort,  he  is  a  hero  in 
that  also.  And  it  is  a  grand  thing  to  be  like  that. 
She  adores  strength,  bravery,  unselfish  deeds.  And — 
what  a  distinguished-looking  man  he  has  become,  but 
then  he  always  had  that  air  noble  even  as  a  boy,  which 
she  admires  so  much,  and  sees  so  seldom. 

Dr.  Lamar  is  off  duty  that  evening,  really  off  duty, 
and  enjoys  his  home  circle  with  a  zest,  a  delight  that 
is  not  untinged  with  pain.  To  sit  and  look  at  that 
lovely  face  is  a  pleasure  so  intense  that  he  is  almost 
afraid  of  it.  Frank  is  there,  near  Leo  ;  Mrs.  Ventnor, 
too,  is  present,  talking  earnestly  to  Mrs.  Abbott. 

They  have  much  to  say  and  hear,  of  the  past  five 
years,  and  once  mutual  friends.  She  and  her  daughter, 
with  Frank,  are  stopping  at  the  hotel  near  by — the 
bandbox  cottage  accommodates  but  one  guest  at  a  time. 
That  one,  Joanna,  is  at  the  piano,  playing  softly — so 
Boftly  that  she  disturbs  the  talk  of  no  one.     Livmgston 


now  JOANNA   PAID   HER  DEBT. 


355 


looked, 
looked 
•ooni  it 
waiting 
lor  over 
spoiling 


•ise,  the 
,  a  horo- 
j  Lamar 
lid  very- 
fortune, 
lie  is 
is  work- 
ulTering, 
hero  in 
ke  that. 
And— 
rae,  but 
^',  which 

)ff  duty, 
ht  that 
at  that 
almost 
entnor, 
tt. 

ast  five 
ughter, 
y — the 
a  time. 
tly — so 
ingston 


trios  to  be  devoted,  and  turns  the  music,  but  sit?  sends 
him  awiy. 

"  I  play  from  memory,"  she  says,  "  or  I  improvise. 
It  is  my  way  of  thinking  aloud  ;  and  I  like  to  be  alone 
when  I  think.  Go  and  talk — go  and  amuse  little  Leo," 
smilingly  ;  "she  hates  to  be  alone." 

So  he  goes,  and  thus  paired  oflF,  the  evening  passes 
delightfully.  It  is  an  evening  Geoffrey,  for  one,  never 
forgets.  Olga  is  by  his  side  ;  Joanna  is  playing  softly, 
softly,  and  a  little  sadly.  Is  she  happ}' ?  Her  face 
tells  nothing.  The  others  are — he  is,  supremely  so. 
Outside  there  is  the  summer  darkness,  the  stars,  the 
whispering  wind.  Yes,  it  is  a  picture  he  will  recall  to 
his  dying  day. 

Miss  Ventnor  has  met  Miss  Wild,  the  vocalist,  with 
some  surprise,  and  extreme  curiosity.  And  so  she  is 
Joanna? — really^  ?  How  stupid  of  her  and  Frank  not 
to  have  recognized  her  at  once.  But  she  Ijas  so 
changed — so  improved.  Miss  Wild  will  pardon  her, 
she  trusts,  for  saying  as  much.  After  all,  she  is  privi- 
leged, being  such  a  very  old — acquaintance.  May  she 
congratulate  her? — her  voice  is  enchanting,  she  envies 
her  whenever  she  hears  it.  How  charming  that  they 
should  all  meet  again  like  this.  And  so  on — more  than 
civil — gracious,  indeed — qiiito  the  manner  of  some  fair 
young  grand  duchess,  so  uplifted  that  she  can  afford  to 
stoop  and  be  sweet. 

Joanna  smiles  at  it  all,  not  embarassed,  not  over- 
whelmed, and  responds  very  quietl}'.  Olga  does  not 
dream — none  of  them  do — the  double  secret  she  holds, 
her  manner  to  Livingston  is  so  slm))ly  that  of  a  friend. 
Still,  he  feels  uncomfortable,  ai]  urges  !ier  to  let  him 
tell.      "  Wait,  wait,"  is  all   she  will   say.     It    is    hei 


356 


now  JOANNA  PAID  HER  DEBT. 


4 


f 


¥  I 


answer  t)  Geoffrey,  too,  wlien  he  reiterates  his  wish  to 
make  known  her  real  positioTi  to  the  Ventnors.  "  Oh, 
wait,"  siie  says  ;  "  time  enongh  for  all  tliat."  And 
they  obey  her.  She  has  a  strong  will,  this  gentle 
Joanna,  and  it  makes  itself  felt.  She  knows  her  own 
mind,  and  fidheres  to  it.  She  forms  her  own  plans, 
and  abides  by  them.  She  has  great  faith  in  time,  and 
waiting,  and  patience,  to  set  the  most  crooked  things 
straight.  A  little,  indeed,  is  n^vealed — she  has  dis- 
covered her  mother,  out  in  San  Francisco,  and  Joanna 
is  going  there  to  join  h.'V  next  week.  It  is  her  inten- 
tion to  return  with  her  and  make  another  brief  visit  to 
the  Lamars. 

After  that — Livingston  glances  at  her  with  a  some- 
what anxious  face,  but  she  smiles  back  at  him  with  a 
brigj-.tness  all  her  own.  She  has  the  brightest  smile, 
the  frankest  laugh,  in  the  world — in  her  i>resence  there 
is. a  sense  of  comfort,  of  peace,  of  rest.  That  subtile 
fascination  of  manner  has  its  effect  on  them  all,  and 
her  singing  charms  care  from  every  heart.  Mrs. 
Ventnor  is  bewitched — Olga  says  so  laughingly  ;  she  is 
ready  to  listen  for   hours,  rapt,   if   Joanna   will   oidy 


sing. 


"  I  repeat  it,"  Miss  Ventnor  ^ays,  "  you  have  be- 
witched mamma,  Miss  Wild.  She  is  under  the  spell  of 
a  musical  enchantress.  What  sorcery  is  in  that  voice 
ot  yours  that  vou  steal  our  hearts  through  our  ears?" 

This  is  very  gracious.  Olga  goes  with  the  majority, 
and  does  real  homage  to  her  old  foe.  The  clear,  noble 
face,  the  quiet,  well-bred  manner,  the  siren  charm  of 
voice,  win  golden  opinions  from  her,  fastidious  as 
she  is. 

"  I  never  saw  any  one  so  changed  as  that — that 


now  JOANNA   PAID   HER  DEDT. 


357 


i  wish  to 
i.     "Oh, 
:."     And 
is  gentle 
her  own 
n\  plans, 
imc,  and 
jd  things 
has  dis- 
\  Joanna 
lior  intcn- 
ef  visit  to 

h  a  some- 
im  with  a 
est  smile, 
?nce  there 
at  siiblilc 
n  all,  and 

t.      Mrs. 

ly  ;  she  is 
|will    only 

have  be- 
lie spell  of 
hat  voice 
Ir  ears  ?  " 
majority, 
bar,  noble 
Icharm  of 
lidious  as 

liat — that 


Joanna,"  she  says,  half  lannjhitigly,  half  petulantly,  to 
Frank;  "she  is  a  witeh,  I  think.  Even  /  cannot  re- 
sist. There  is  a  sort  of  charm  about  her — I  cannot  do* 
iine  it,  bnt  perhaps  you  can  see — ihat  compels  one's 
liking  in  spite  of  one's  self." 

"  And  why  in  spile  of  one's  self,  Mile.  Olga?  Why 
should  one  try  to  resist  ?  " 

"Ah!  why?  We  were  always  antagonistic,  you 
know.  And  so  you  ca/i  see  it  ?  Now,  really  you  are 
sharper-sighted  than  I  took  you  to  be.  I  thought  you 
saw  nothing  but  little  Leo's  riante  face  !  " 

"What?"  Livingston  cries,  conscience-stricken  ; 
"do  you  know  what  you  are  saying?  Leo  !  What  is 
Leo  to  me  ?  " 

"I  do  not  know  what  Leo  may  be  to  you  at  this 
present  moment,"  says  Olga,  coolly,  "but  if  things  go 
on,  she  will  be  Mrs.  Livingston  to  vou  before  long. 
Deja!  we  go  fast,  my  friend.  Your  heart  goes  out 
tln'ough  your  eyes,  it  seems.  And  onlj'^  two  months 
ago  he  proposed  to  me  !  Wiiat  a  crushing  blow  to  my 
vanity  i     As  for  little  Leo " 

But  the  door  opens,  and  little  Leo  comes  in  with 
Joanna,  and  the  cousins  part — Livingston  covered  with 
confusion  as  with  a  garment,  and  Olga's  sapphire  eyes 
hiughing  wath  malice. 

The  days  go  by  ;  Joanna's  week  has  nearly  merged 
into  two.  They  hold  her  by  force,  it  seems ;  Mrs. 
Abbott's  pleading  eyes,  Leo's  pleading  lips,  Geoffrey's 
pleasure  in  her  prolonged  stay.  The  Ventnors  are 
still  liere  ;  Livingston  is  every  day,  and  all  day  every 
da)'',  almost,  at  the  cottage. 

Dr.  Lamar  works  as  hard  as  ever,  spares  himself  as 
little  as  ever,  and  begins  to  really  look  haggard  and 


:l 


.V 


l|^ 


;i! 


n 


858 


now  JOANXA   1»AID   IIER  DEBT. 


ill.  His  mother  and  Joanna  watch  him  witli  anxious 
eyes,  and  what  they  fi'ar  comos  to  ])ass.  01<^a'.s  hero 
goes  down  on  his  battlo-fiehl,  but  facing  and  (ighling 
the  foe  until  he  falls,  prostrate  and  conquered. 

And  tlien  there  are  tears,  and  panic,  and  terror  in 
the  bright  little  household,  and  a  sudden  scattering  of 
the  happy  circle.  And  in  this  liour,  Joanna  comes 
forward  to  pay  her  debt,  to  pay  it,  if  need  be,  even 
with  her  life.  She  is  calm  and  self-possessed,  where 
all  is  dismay.  She  takes  Livingston  aside,  and  speaks 
to  him  as  one  having  authority. 

"Last  night  I  spoke  to  GeofTrey,"  she  quietl)'^  says: 
"he  felt  this  coming  oti,  and  knew  he  could  rely 
upon  me.  He  wished  to  be  taken  to  the  hospital,  but 
that  I  would  not  hear  of.  He  wished  me  to  go,  but 
that  was  still  more  impossible.  Then  we  decided  what 
to  do,  and  you  must  obey.  You  must  leave  at  once, 
and  take  Miss  Ventnor,  and  her  mother,  and  Loo  with 
you,  to  Brightbrook,  if  you  are  wise;  this  city  is  not 
safe.  I  remain  with  Mrs.  Abbott.  A  professional 
nurse  is  coming,  and  his  friend,  Dr.  Morgan,  will 
attend.  To  obey  is  the  only  way  in  which  you  can 
help  us,  and  with  the  help  of  Heaven,  Geoffrey  will 
be  restored  to  us  soon." 

"  But,  oh,  Joanna,"  the  young  man  cries  out,  "  it 
may  be  death  to  you  !" 

She  smiles;  it  is  a  smile  that  goes  to  his  heart. 

"  If  Heaven  pleases,  but  I  think  not.  I  am  so 
strong,  so  well,  I  have  never  been  ill  in  my  life,  and 
I  am  not  in  the  least  afraid.  I  do  not  think  that  for 
me  there  is  the  slightest  danger.  But  for  your  cousin 
and  Leo,  there  may  be  much.  Take  them  away,  Frank, 
and  do  not  come  here  any  more." 


HOW   JOANNA   PAID   11  Ell  DEBT.             359 

anxious 

"I  will  take  them  away,"  l»e  answers,  "but  as  for 

jffi's  lioro 

not  coining  here  any  more -" 

fij^liliiig 

lie  (loos  not  iiiiisli   the  senteneo;  lie  turns  to  go. 

CD                    •-» 

[. 

Then  .su(bleniy  he  comes  buck,  and   clasps   li(3r  closely 

terror  in 

in  his  arms,  and  kisses  her  again  and  again. 

tering  of 

"God  bless  you,  my  own  darling — my  brave,  noble, 

i;i    couK'S 

great-hearted  Joanna,  and  make  me  woi  thy  of  you  iu 

be,  oven 

the  time  that  is  to  come." 

3d,  where 
nd  speaks 

etly  says: 
ould  rely 
pital,  but 
o  go,  but 
ided  what 
at  once, 
Loo  with 
ity  is  not 
)fessi()nal 
•gan,  will 
you  can 
ffrey  will 

out,  "it 

lieart. 

I  am   so 

life,  and 

that  for 

lur  cousin 

]y,  Frank, 


Olga  Ventnor,  and  her  mother,  and  Leo  are  taken 
away.  Not  willingly,  rebelling,  and  under  loud  pro- 
tests and  tears  on  Leo's  part,  white,  mute  grief  on 
Olga's.  Her  heart  burns  as  she  thinks  of  Joanna  there 
in  the  post  of  danger,  by  his  side,  and  she  here, 
selfishly  safe  and  free. 

But  she  says  little.  What  is  there  for  her  to 
say  ?  and  maiden  pride  is  very  strong  in  Olga  Ventnor. 
They  see  that  she  is  pale,  that  as  the  days  go  on  she 
gvows  thin  as  a  shadow,  that  she  wanders  about  like 
a  restless  spirit,  that  she  listens  breathlessly  to  the 
report  Livingston  brings  daily,  and  many  times  a  day. 
For  they  have  not  gone,  that  would  have  been  too 
crue^,  and  Frank  hovers  constantly  about  the  cottage, 
intercepts  the  doctor,  waylays  the  nurse,  and  tries  to 
catch  glimpses  of  Joanna.  There  are  not  many  glimpses 
of  Joanna  to  be  had;  she  literally  lives  in  the  sick- 
room, she  shares  the  nightly  vigils,  she  snatches  brief 
naps  in  her  clothes,  while  she  insists  upon  his  mother 
taking  her  proper  rest.  No  Sister  of  Mercy,  no 
adoring  wife,  could  have  watched,  nursed,  cared  for 
him  more  devotedly  than  does  she.  And  the  days 
pass — the   long,   sunny,    summer   days.      Everything 


H 


.f' 


:. 


I 


m 


360 


now  JOANNA    PAID    II KK   DEBT. 


•\i 


that  medical  Rkill  cnn  do,  tliat  tiroloss  nursing  can  do, 
are  douv.  And  they  triiirn|)li.  Tliorc  corjics  a  day 
and  a  niglit  of  agoni/iMl  suspense?,  and  waiting,  and 
heart-break — a  night  in  whieli  Olga  Ventnor  knows  in 
lier  agony  that  if  Geoffrey  Lamar  dies,  all  tijat  life 
holds  of  joy  for  her  will  die  too — a  night  in  which 
Leo  weeps,  and  Livingston  roams  restlessly,  an(? 
Joainia  watehes,  and  waits,  and  prays.  And  as  day 
dawns,  and  the  first  lances  of  sunshine  pierce  tho 
darkened  sick-room,  she  comes  out,  white  as  a  spirit, 
wasted,  wan,  hut  oh  !  so  thankful — Oh  !  so  glad — Oh! 
80  nnspeaka))ly  blessed.  Frank  Livingston  starts  up 
and  comes  forward,  pale  too,  and  worn,  and  thin. 
lie  does  not  speak — his  eyes  speak  for  him. 

"  Do  not  come  near,"  Joanna  says,  remembering, 
even  in  that  supreme  hour,  prudence.  "Go  home 
and  tell  them  all  to  ble^ss  God  for  us.  Geoffrey  will 
live." 

lie  goes  and  tells  his  glad  news.  Mrs.  Ventnor 
and  Leo  cry  with  joy,  and  are  full  of  outspoken 
thanksgiving,  but  Olga  is  silent  And  presently  she 
rises,  feeling  giddy  and  faint,  and  goes  to  her  room, 
and  falls  on  her  knees  by  the  bed,  and  there  remains, 
bowed,  speechless,  motionless,  a  long,  long  time.  And 
whether  it  is  for  Geoffrey  she  is  praying,  or — Joanna 
— she  can  never  tell. 


*•• 


**  TUE    TIME  OF   ROSES.'' 


361 


can  flo, 

I  a  (lay 
n<',  an<] 
iioNVs  in 
hat  life 

II  which 
ily,   and 

as  day 
jrce  tho 
a  spirit, 
ad— Oh! 
ilarts  up 
ud    thin. 

mbering, 
io  hotne 
frey  will 

Ventnor 
ut spoken 
lently  8he 
er  room, 
remaini^, 
ne.  And 
— Joanna 


m 


ti 


CriArTER  X, 


THE   TIME   OF    KOSES. 


n 


U     i.^^;  -=r 


NEVER   thoujrlit    to   SCO   it   again,   the 

(IcMi*  old   place.     Nowhere  in   the  world 

can  ever  seem  ho  uiuch  like  homo  to  me 

as  Brightbrook.     It  is  good,  good,  good 

to  be  back  !" 

So  sff^'s  little  Leo,  drawing  a  long,  contented 
breath.  She  stands  leaning  against  a  l)rown  tree 
trunk,  her  hat  in  her  hand,  the  Hiinshine  sifting  down 
upon  her  like  a  rain  of  gold,  flecking  her  pink  caml.ric 
dress,  her  braided  dark  hair,  her  sweet,  soft-cut  face, 
the  great  black  velvety  eyes. 

Those  dark  eyes  gaze  with  a  wistful  light  in  tho 
direction  of  Abbott  Wood,  whither  she  has  not  yet; 
been.  Sitting  in  a  rustic  cliair,  near,  P'rank  Living- 
ston looks  at  her,  thinking,  artist-like,  what  an  uncon- 
scious picture  she  makes  of  herself,  and  with  some- 
thing deeper,  perhaps,  than  mere  artist  admiration  in 
his  eyes. 

They  are  all  herc^  the  Lamar  family,  and  have 
been  for  two  days.  To  Leo  it  is  as  though, they  had 
n^'ver  quitted  it.  The  villa,  the  village,  the  faces  of 
Frank  and  Olga,  everything  seems  as  if  she  had  only 
left  yesterday.  The  gap  of  years  is  bridged  over  ; 
she  is  rich  and  prosperous  Leo  Abbott  once  more. 
Only  her  old  liome  she  has  not  seen  ;  she  longs  to  go, 
but  dreads  to  ask. 

In  an  invalid  chair,  close  by,  sits  her  brother,  very 
much  of  an  invalid  still,  pallid  and  thin  to  a  most  in- 
16 


ir^ii 


^ 


302 


*'  TUK    inw:  or  kosks. 


11 


r 


11 


'\'i 


I'i 


lit 


terestint;  ile^rcM',  iukI  pcttccl  by  all  tlio  woniaiil<Iii(l 
until  Liviiit;Mt<)U  dcclarrs  in  distrust  the  ul'li'r  codilliii*]; 
must  l»o  ten  liiiK'H  lianler  for  Liuiiur  to  bear  up  iij^.tiust 
than  tluj  fcvur  bout.  Oli^a  i»  an  except  ion.  Oljjja, 
now  that  hIio  lias  gotten  liiui  siifely  here,  feels  a  Tnnit- 
less  content,  but  she  does  not  "  coddle."  She  watches 
the  relurnint^  appetite,  the  L?rowin«^  stren/^th,  the 
gradual  return  to  life  and  health,  with  a  gladness,  a 
thankfulness  words  arc  weak  to  tell,  but  she  pets  not 
at  all.  She  treats  him  a  triHu  more  tenderly,  perhajts, 
than  the  (teotfrey  I^aniar,  vigorous  of  strength  and 
life,  of  some  weeks  back  ;  but  feil  as  she  may,  Olga 
VentiM)r  is  not  one  to  wear  her  heart  on  her  sleeve  for 
any  man,  sick  or  well.  She  is  a  fair,  a  gracious,  a 
lovely  young  hostess,  fidl  of  all  gentle  care  for  the 
comfort  of  her  guests  ;  but  (Geoffrey  is  her  mother's 
especial  province,  atul  to  her  mother  she  quietly  leaves 
him. 

It  is  rather  against  his  will,  truth  to  tell,  that  Dr. 
Lamar  is  here  at  all  ;  but  very  little  voice  was  given 
him  in  the  matter — his  faint  objections  were  over- 
ruled by  a  vast  majority,  and  he  was  en  route  hither 
almost  before  ho  knew  it. 

Colonel  Ventnor  had  come  for  his  wife  and  dauffli- 
ter,  alarmed  for  their  safety,  and,  finding  the  patient 
convalescent,  had  waited  a  few  days,  and  abducted 
him,  willy  nilly.  The  cottage  had  been  shut  up,  and 
the  family  are  safely  here,  recuperating  in  the  fresh, 
sea-scented  breezes  of  IJrightbrook,  and  Olga  and  Leo 
at  least,  in  their  hidden  hearts,  supremely  happy. 

For  Frank  and  Geoffrey — well,  tlmir  roses  are  cer- 
tainly not  thornless.  For  Geoffrey,  he  finds  himself 
yielding  irresistibly  to  the  spell  of  other  days,  and  it 


"  TIFE    TIME   OK   ROSES." 


303 


i\<j;:viiist 

I  liinit- 

Ih,  ll»o 
ilnt'ss,  ii 
»c'tH  not 
pcrlinjts, 

ivy,  01j4!i 
k't've  for 
acious,  a 
for  the 
inotbor's 
ly  leaves 

that  Dr. 

as  givcMi 

I'l-e   ovor- 

Ite  hither 

id  dangh- 
e  patient 
labducted 

up,  and 
Ihe  fresh, 

and  Leo 

are  cer- 

18  himself 

rs,  and  it 


threatens  to  1)o  a  fatal  spoil.  In  those  oilier  tiays  it 
was  (lilTerent — hi'  ini<j;lit  have  hoped  then — now  hope 
would  only  he  another  name  for  presumption,  lie  has 
loved  Oli^a  ever  sinee  lie  can  remember,  it  seems  to 
him,  and  even  when  he  thoui^ht  her  assij^nied  to  Liv- 
inufslon,  ha<l  h(»p«'d,  feeling  eonlident  of  being  al)le  to 
hold  his  own  with  that  careless  wooer,  liut  all  that 
has  been  changed  ;  in  those  days  he  was  the  heir  pre- 
Bum))tive  of  a  very  rich  man  ;  in  these  days  he  is  a 
penniless  doctor,  able  to  earn  his  daily  brea<l,an<l  littlo 
more.     And  for  all  the  best  vears  of  his   life  it  seems 

■r 

likely  to  be  so.  I^'or  himself,  he  has  (piite  made  up  his 
mind  to  it,  has  not  been  uidiappy,  but  now — now,  after 
this  inopportune  visit,  after  long  days  spent  in  her  so- 
ciety, it  will  be  diflFeient.  He  can  hardly  love  her  bet- 
ter, and  yet  he  dreads  to  stay.  He  will  spoil  his  life 
for  nothing  ;  a  hopeless  passion  will  mar  all  that  is 
best  in  him,  a  love  she  must  never  know  of  will  con- 
sume his  life,  eat  out  his  heart  with  useless  longings 
and  regrets. 

Meantime  Joanna  speeds  on  by  day  and  by  night, 
on  her  long  journey  to  her  mother.  Her  prediction 
has  proven  true — she  does  not  take  the  fever.  And 
the  doctor  tells  them  all  that  to  her  indefatigable 
nursing  more  than  anything  else  do  they  owe  Geof- 
frey's life. 

"Thank  her  if  you  can,  young  man,"  Dr.  Morgan 
says  ;  "  she  never  spared  herself  by  night  or  day.  But 
for  her  you  would  be  a  dead  man  this  morning." 

Bu*  GeofTrey  does  not  even  try  to  thank  her — there 
are  things  for  which  mere  words,  be  they  never  so  elo- 
quent, are  a  poor  return.  Others  overwhelm  her  with 
tears  and  gratitude — bis  mother,  his  sister,  Mrs.  Vent- 


ri 


3G4 


n  rpjip,    TIME   OF    ROSES." 


.  IS    I 
i  if  * 


I: 


.J, 


nor.  Olga  says  little,  but  it  in  at  licr  Joanna  looks 
She  is  very  pale  in  these  first  days,  with  a  tense  sort  of 
look  in  her  blue  eyes  ;  but  she  holds  lierself  well  in 
hand,  and  even  Joanna  turns  away  disappointed,  from 
that  still,  proudly  calm  face.  Only  when  they  say 
good-by  does  a  glimpse  of  Olga's  heart  appear.  She 
is  the  last  t«»  say  it,  and  they  ai'e  alone.  She  lias  held 
out  her  hand  at  first  with  a  smile,  and  the  conventional 
go  )d  wishes  for  a  ])leasant  journey.  Suddenly  she 
flings  her  arms  around  Joaniia's  neck  and  holds  her  al- 
most wiMly  to  her. 

"You  have  saved  his  life,"  she  whispers,  kissing 

I  will  love  you  while  I  live 


ler  a<j:ain  a 


nd 


aiTiVin. 


(( 


?' 


foi'  that 

And  then  she  is  gone. 

Joanna  looks  after  her,  a  glad,  relieved,  triumj)hant 
Bmile  on  her  face. 


"It  is  so,  then,"  she  says,  softly,  "in  spite  of  all — 
in  spite  of  pride.     I  am  so  glad — so  very,  very  glad." 

And  now  thev  are  all  here,  and  the  five  last  miser- 
able  }ears  seem  to  drift  away,  and  the  old  time — "the 
time  of  roses" — comes  back.  Leo  visits  Abbott  Wood 
to  her  heart's  content — no  one  objects — and  wanders 
sadly  under  the  trees,  and  down  by  the  blue  summer 
sea,  througli  the  glowing  rooms,  speaking  of  her  motb- 
er's  refined  taste,  her  father's  boundless  wealth. 


'oor 


paj 


YX  !     L«o'a  tender   little  heart  is  sad  for 


him  yet.  Here  is  the  chapel,  beautiful  St.  Walbnrga's, 
with  itb  radiant  saints  on  golden  backgrounds,  the 
crimson  and  purple  and  golden  glass  casting  rays  of 
rainbow  lioht  on  the  colored  marbles  of  the  floor,  the 
carven  pulpit  with  its  angel  faces,  from  which  Mr. 
Lamb's  meek  countenance  used  to  beatn  down  on  thera 


*^  THE    TIME   OF    KOSES." 


nm 


nioth- 


id  for 
liirga'i^, 
the 
'S  of 
•,  the 
th  Mr. 
thera 


all.  I'p  yomler  in  tlie  organ  \vh(>re  mamma  used  to  sit 
and  ]i\ii\  Mozart  an<l  Ilavdii  on  Sunday  afternoona. 
How  siU'Mt,  how  sad,  liow  (ihint^t'd,  it  all  is  now.  Iloro 
is  ht'r  own  >vhitt'  and  hhic  cliamlM-r,  with  its  lov(dy 
picture  of  CiiriMt  hlcHsinjaf  little  children,  its  guardian 
angels  on  bi'ackels,  her  books,  and  toilet  tilings,  all 
as  they   used   to  he. 

U«re  is  Geoffrey's  i«CK>m,  fK»re  enough  arid  without 
carpet,  for  liis  tastes  wen  pr«>tei'naturally  austere  in 
those  days,  with  Icjts  of  s]i>ace,  and  little  else,  except 
an  iron  hedstea<l,  an<l  ti*^)les,  and  cliairs.  And  books, 
of  ct)iu>e — everywliere  b'x^ks.  And  a  horrid  skeleton 
in  a  closet,  on  wires,  and  •»  <ltij<sm;il  skull  grinning  at  her 
under  glas>^. 

Leo  gets  out  again  as  quickly  as  tnay  be,  with  a 
shudder  at  Geoff's  dreadfid  trtstes.  Her  first  visit 
leaves  her  very  sad  and  thoughtful  ;  she  loves  every 
tree  in  the  old  jdace,  every  ro(jm  in  the  stately  house, 
and  it  is  never  to  be  home  to  her  any  more  I  It  is 
Joanna's,  and,  of  course,  she  is  glad  of  that.  No  good 
too  good  can  come  to  Joanna  ;  but  for  all  that,  it 
makes  her  lieart  ache.  She  may  come  to  it  as  a  visitor, 
but  dear,  dear  Abbott  Wood  will  never  be  home  any 
more. 

No  one  else  goes,  not  her  mother,  not  her  brother  ; 
they  drive  in  every  other  direction,  never  in  that. 
Leo  goes  often,  and  frequent  going  blunts  the  first 
sharp  feeling  of  loss  and  pain.  Aiiother  sense  of  loss 
and  pain,  keener  yet,  follows  this.  What  has  she  done 
to  Fraid<?  He  is  her  friend  no  more  ;  he  avoids  lier, 
indeed  ;  he  is  never  her  escort  if  he  can  help  it.  Some- 
times he  cannot  help  it.  Olga,  in  her  imperious 
fashion,  orders  him  to  go  and  take  care  of  Leo,  and 


f 


366 


a 


THE    TIME   OF    ROSES. 


M 


IM 


not  let  tlio  cliil<l  come  to  harm  moving  about  alone. 
Leo  trieH  to  assert  Jierself,  and  Hummon  pridci  to  her 
aid  ;  but  Leo  in  the  role  of  a  haughty  maiden  is  a 
failure.  The  sensitive  lips  quiver,  like  the  lips  of  a 
grieved  child  ;  the  velvet  l)lack  eyes  grow  dewy  and 
deep,  with  tears  hardly  held  back.  What  has  she  done 
to  make  Frank  dislike  her?  He  used  not  be  like  this  ; 
he  used  to  be  nice,  and  attentive,  and  ])olite.  But  it 
is  so  no  more,  lie  goes  with  her  when  he  must,  and 
talks  to  her  aft(>r  a  constrained  fashion,  and  looks  at 
her  furtively,  and  seems  guilty,  when  caught  in  the 
act.  Why  should  he  look  guilty,  and  glance  hastily 
awav  ?  '^I'here  is  no  harm  in  lookiiK'  at  her — Leo  has 
a  secret  consciousness  that  she  is  not  bad  to  look  at, 
She  cannot  be  entirely  miserable  over  the  loss  of  her 
old  home,  while  she  every  day  grows  more  and  more 
miseral)le  over  the  loss  of  her  friend. 

And  the  (biys  go  on,  and  the  weeks  pass,  and  the 
end   of   September  is  here.      They   have   heard   from 


Joanna.     Mrs.    Abbott    has    bad   a   brief   letter. 


very 


brief.  She  has  reached  her  journey's  end  in  safety  ; 
she  has  found  her  mother,  has  taken  her  from  the  asy- 
lum, and,  after  a  week  or  two  of  rest,  will  return. 
She  sends  her  love  to  all.  There  is  no  more.  It  is 
singularly  short,  and  business-like,  and  to  the  point. 
She  writes  to  no  one  else.  Livingston  hardly  knows 
whether  he  is  sorry  or  relieved.  He  has  asked  her  to 
write,  but  she  has  made  no  promise.     In  a  fortnight 

she    will  be  back,  and  then They  will  bear  the 

announcement  of  his  engagement  better  now  than  they 
would  have  done  a  month  ago.  After  all,  it  is  as  well 
he  waited.  All  sing  pjBans  in  Joanna's  praise  now. 
He  grows  a  trifle  weary,  sometimes,  listening.    It  is  all 


*'  THE    TIME   OF   ROSES." 


3G7 


true,  no  doul:*  :  slie  is  a  noble  woninii  ;  he  will  never 


be  half  worthy  of  her,  at  his  best,  but lie   looks 

across  at  Leo,  sitting:,  listlessly  eiioinj^li,  in  a  garden- 
chair,  jier  hands  lying  idly  on  her  lay),  her  niignonne 
face  pale  and  spiritless  ;  the  soft,  black  eyes  heavy- 
lidded  and  tiled-looking.  The  sweet,  childisii  mouth 
has  a  pathetic  little  droop  ;  she  looks  sorry,  or  lonely, 
or  something.  He  starts  up  impatiently,  and  goes  off, 
angrv  with  himself — his  fate — all  the  world. 

And  now  the  Lamars  begin  to  talk  of  going  — 
(ireoffrey,  indeed,  has  been  iinf)atiently  talking  of  it, 
and  thinking  of  it,  for  some  time,  bi'^  ha-<  been  met  by 
such  a  storm  of  reproach  for  his  unseemly  haste,  that 
lie  lias  been  forced  to  desist.  But  against  his  better 
judgment  always,  and  now  he  loill  go.  His  work 
awaits  him.  Dr.  jMorgan  writes  sarcastically  to  inquire 
if  he  has  fallen  into  a  Rip  Van  Winkle  slumber  up 
there  in  his  sylvan  Sleepy  Hollow.  He  is  perfectly 
well  again,  no  plea  of  invalidisjn  can  be  put  forth  to 
detain  liim,  and  his  resolution  is  taken.  To-morrow 
he  goes.  His  mother  and  sister  can  remain  another 
week,  if  they  choose,  while  he  has  the  cottage  put  in 
order.  They  do  choose,  overwlielmed  by  the  hospita- 
ble i)ressiiig  of  the  Ventnors,  and  so  it  is  decided. 

The  last  evening  has  come.  Leo  is  away  on  one  of 
her  long  rambles,  and,  for  a  woiider,  Livingston  is 
xnih  her.  It  is  the  hour  of  sunset.  Colonel  Ventnor, 
his  daughter,  and  Dr.  Lamar  linger  on  the  lawn.  The 
lovely  after-glow,  the  exquisite  rose-light  of  a  perfect 
September  day  yet  lingers  in  the  sky  ;  a  faintly  salt 
breeze  corner  fresh  innu  the  ocean,  and  stirs  the  sleep- 
ing flowers.  On  the  piazza,  at  the  other  side  of  the 
house,  the  elder  ladies  sit,  and  after  a  little  the  colonel 


[I 


868 


"  THE    TIME   OF   ROSES." 


feels  called  tjpon  to  join  them.  Then  Geoffrey  throws 
liiinself  on  the  dry,  crisp,  grass,  rather  tired  after  a 
h)nn;  (lay's  rambling,  and  Olga,  with  a  smile,  seats  her- 
self on  a  grassy  knoll  close  by. 

"I  know  you  are  used  up,  if  you  would  but  own 
it,"  she  is  saying.  "  /am,  and  do  not  mind  confessing 
it  in  the  least.  Ten  miles  is  as  much  as  I  ever  waiit 
to  do  at  once.  I  fear  it  was  hardly  wise  of  you,  not 
yet  fully  strong,  to  go  as  far  as  you  did." 

"  You  will  Insist  on  kecjiing  me  on  the  sick  list," 
he  answers.  "  I  believe  I  am  as  strong  as  I  ever  was 
in  my  life.  I  might  have  gone  a  week  ago,  with  per- 
fect safety.  .Aly  walk  will  do  me  no  harm.  And  it  is 
for  the  last  time," 

'^rhere  is  a  pause.  Tiis  voice  is  regretful — it  is  hard 
to  go.  A  little  frown  deepens  between  Miss  Veni.ior's 
eyebrows. 

"I  hate  last  time,"  she  says,  petulantly,  "I  hate 
saying  good-by.  Every  year  I  live,  every  friend  I  part 
with,  I  hate  it  more  and  more.  Th«y  are  the  two 
hardest,  hatefulest  words  in  the  language.  Yon  must 
like  it,  though,  you  appear  so  desperately  anxious  to 
say  it,  and  get  rid  of  us." 

He  looks  up  at  her.  She  is  very  lovely,  but  she  is 
always  that.  Her  hat  lies  on  her  lap,  her  delicate  face 
is  ever  so  little  flushed,  ever  so  little  petulant,  her  blue 
eyes  have  an  almost  irate  sparkle.  See  is  dressed  in 
pale  blue,  crisp,  silky,  cool,  a  cluster  of  pink  roses  in 
her  breast,  another  in  her  hair.  She  looks  all  azure 
and  roses,  golden  hair,  and  flower  face.  He  turns 
away  his  eyes,  slightlj''  dazzled. 

"  Do  you  believe  that,"  he  a?ks,  quietly,  "  that  I 
am  glad  to  go  ?" 


*'  THE    TIME  OF   ROSES." 


369 


throw  J 
iftor  a 
its  her- 

iit  own 
fcssing 
r  waat 
on,  not 

;k    list," 

/er  was 
ith  per- 
lIuI  it  is 

t  is  hard 
eni.ior's 

"  I  hato 
d  I  part 
;he  two 

:ious  to 

t  she  is 
[ite  face 
ler  bine 
issed  in 
OSes  in 
1  azure 
e  turns 

('  that  I 


"It  looks  like  it,  I  confess.  Yon  have  talked  of 
nothing  else  but  going  ever  since  you  came.  Ami 
now  you  will  leave  us  to-morrow,  though  the  heavens 
fall." 

"It  would  have  been  wiser  if  I  had  never  come,"  he 
says,  still  very  quietly  ;  "it  would  have  been  wiser  for 
me  if  I  had  gone  the  moment  I  was  able.  I  did  not 
mean  to  say  this,  but,  Olga,  cannot  you  see — do  you 
not  know  the  reason  ?" 

"No,  I  do  not,"  she  answers,  still  petulant,  althoui;h 
the  deepening  flush  on  her  cheek  tells  another  story. 
"  I  only  know  you  are  very  jK-rverse,  and  are  longing 
to  be  off  among  your  fever  patients,  and  to  catch  it  if 
possible  over  again  yoursolf." 

"  Would  you  care  if  I  did — would  you  care  if  I 
did?"  he  says,  then  quickly  checks  himself.  "No," 
he  says,  "do  not  answer  that  question.  I  had  no  right 
to  ask  it — I  recall  it,  and  beg  your  pardon.  1  did  not 
mean  to  say  this  much,  Olga,  to  say  anything,  but 
but  having  said  it  in  spitj  of  myself,  let  me  say  yt't 
more.  I  love  you,  Olga,  I  love  you  with  my  whole 
heart." 

There  is  a  startling  pause.  Miss  Ventnor  catches 
her  breath,  but  makes  no  other  sign. 

"Once  I  might  have  said  this  with  something  of  a 
good  grace,"  Geoffrey  goes  on  ;  "  that  day  has  gone 
by.  I  loved  you  even  then,  Olga.  I  can  recall  no  time 
when  I  did  not.  But  the  deluge  came — the  whole 
world  changed  for  me  ;  we  parted,  rnd  I  never  thought 
to  see  you  again.  I  did  not  forget  you  ;  I  never  could. 
You  were  the  oni;  fair  woman  in  all  the  world  for  me, 
but  I  never  wished  to  meet  you  more.  That  way  mad- 
ness lay.     But  who  is  stronger  than  his  fate  ?     You 

m 


ii'' 


Il 


I 


870 


ti 


THE    TIME    OF    ROSKS. 


5> 


came — we  hat^e  met,  I  am  here,  I  urn  at  your  feel,  I 
am  sayini^  ibis.  My  whole  heart  is  yours — perhaps  it 
is  written  in  the  book  of  fate  that  I  am  to  tell  you  this. 
It  is  presumption,  I  know,  but  I  kncnv,  too,  you  will 
not  look  on  it  in  that  light.  We  have  been  8ueh  old 
friends,  Olga,  that  you  will  listen,  and  pity,  and  for- 
give." 

Pity  and  forgive  !      And  be  asks  iiolbing  but  that. 

*'  I  meant  to  go  and  s;jy  nothing," — all  this  time  he 
has  hardly  stin-ed  from  his  reeumbent  position,  hardly 
let  a  touch  of  the  excitement  that  thrills  him  creep  into 
his  voic(! — it  is  the  most  passive-looking  of  love-making, 
and  yet  is  full  of  repressed  passion  and  tJre.  "  1  meant  to 
depart  and  make  no  sign.  IJut  my  love  is  stronger 
that!  my  judgment.  And  after  all  it  can  do  no  harm. 
You  will  forget,  and  I  will  take  my  dreams  with  me, 
and  be  the  less  miserable  for  knowing  that  you  have 
heard  aiul  ujiderstood.  If  I  wen;  a  richer  man  I  would 
plead  very  differently.  It  is  that  I  am  so  absolutely 
poor  that  gives  me  courag<3  to  speak  at  all.  Despair, 
you  know,  is  a  free  man — Hope  is  a  coward.  When 
we  have  nothing  to  hope  for,  we  h;i.ve  nothing  to  fear. 
Say  you  forgive  me,  Olga,  and  are  still  my  friend  in 
spite  of  this." 

"  I  will   say  it,"  she  answers,    with   a  great  effort, 


(( 


md  if 


}■ 


ou  wish — more 


?» 


He  turns  and  looks  at  her,  surprise  in  his  face,  little 
else.  Ceitainly  tliere  is  no  gleam  of  hope.  He  has 
settled  it  so  completely  with  himself  that  it  is  impos- 
sible she  can  care  for  hi.ii,  that  it  is  not  for  one  falter- 
ing reply  to  upset  Ins  iheory. 


(( 


Olffa  !"  h. 


n 


says 


Her  head  is  averted,  her  cheek  is  crimson,  her  eyes 


HOW  JOAX^^V    SAID   GOOD-BY. 


371 


are  dovvncMst,  her  fiiigtM*s  pluck  nervously  at  the  tufts 
of  grass  aixl  wild  flowers. 

"  Olga,"  he  says  again,  an<l  this  time  there  is  a  wild, 


incredulous  flash  of  delight  in  his  eyes. 


01 


nra  : 


r" 


*'  Oh,"  she  breaks  out,  brokenly,  "  cannot  i/oi(  see  ! 
AVhy  will  you  force  me  to  speak?  I  will  7iot  speak  !" 
with  a  flash  from  the  great  blue  eyes. 

She  rises  suddenly  to  her  feet,  and  scatters  a  sliower 
of  pink  petals  over  her  lover,  and  over  the  grass. 

"  Olga,"  is  all  he  can  say,  in  his  whirl  of  amazement, 
incrcclulity,  of  mad,  new  joy. 

I'liere  is  a  struggle.  Then  all  at  once  she  stoops, 
and,  lightly  as  the  touch  of  thistle-d..>\vn,  her  lips  rest 
on  his  forehead. 

"If  you  can  leave  me — now,"  she  says,  flushed, 
frightened  at  her  own  temerity,  breathless,  laugh- 
ingly, "  go  !" 

And,  as  she  speaks,  she  turns,  and  swiftly  as  a  fawn 
flies,  is  gone. 


♦•* 


'ort, 

ittle 
has 

)0S- 

ter- 


3ye8 


CHAPTER  XI. 

HOW   rOANNA    SAID   GOOD-BY. 

H  THINK  it  is  odd,"  says  Mrs.  Abbott,  lan- 
guidly, "and  unlike  Joanna.  She  never 
has  whims.  Why  should  she  wish  us  to 
remain  here,  instead  of  going  home,  as 


we  ought,  to  receive  her?" 

Another  week  has  gone  by — nine  days,  indeed — 
and  Leo  and  her  mother  are  still  the  guests  of  the 
Ventnors.  Geoffrey  has  gone  back  to  his  cottage 
Lome,  as  per  previous  arrangenieut,  to  have  it  set  in 


I 


f 


i; 


;i 


372 


now   JOANNA    SAID  GOOD-BY. 


order  for  lliotn,  and  resume  his  labors.  Otic  day 
Ioniser  than  lie  had  intended  lie  has  staid,  and  botli 
fanulics  have  been  eloetrified  by  the  wonderful  news. 
And  yet  not,  j)er!iaj)S,  so  very  greatly.  Coh)nel  Vent- 
nor  glances  at  his  daughter,  and  slowly  stniles.  In  all 
his  life  he  has  never  eontradieled  his  darling — he  is 
hardly  likely  to  begin  now.  And  he  is  not  ainl)itious 
of  adding  wealth  to  wealth — she  is,  and  will  be  always, 
sufficiently  rich.  As  the  heir  of  .Tohn  Abbott,  he  cer- 
tainly never  would  have  dreamed  of  objecting  to  young 
Lamar,  with  the  best  blood  of  the  South  in  his  veins. 
As  a  struggling  young  doctor  he  is  not  less  worthy  of 
her.  He  is  no  forttme  hunter,  of  that  the  colonel  is 
well  assured.  And  Olga  loves  him  ;  his  proud  and 
delicate  darling,  whose  lieart  hitherto  no  man  has  been 
able  to  touch.  lie  grasps  Geoffrey's  hand  with  frank, 
soldierly  warmth. 

"There  is  no  man  living  to  whom  I  would  sooner 
give  her,"  he  says,  cordially.  "P^'ortune?  Ah,  well, 
fortune  is  not  everything,  and  fortuTie  is  to  be  won  by 
the  willing.  You  are  of  that  number,  I  am  sure.  If 
I  fancied  /icr  fortune  hatl  to  do  with  it,  do  you  think 
I  would  listen  like  this?  It  is  because  I  could  stake 
my  life  on  the  truth  of  the  lad  I  have  known  all  his 
life,  that  I  say  yes  so  readily.  Make  her  happy,  Geof- 
frey— all  is  said  in  that." 

Could  anything  be  racn'e  delightful?  Geoffrey 
finds  the  whole  English  language  inadequate  to  his 
wants,  in  the  way  of  thanks.  Mrs.  Ventnor  is  charmed 
— the  son  of  her  dearest  friend  is  the  one,  above  all 
others,  she  would  have  chosen  for  her  son  as  well. 

One  thing  only  is  a  drawback — the  story  that  must 
be  told,  the  one  bar  sinister  on  the  spotless  Lamar 


HOW  JOANNA    SAID   OOOD-BY. 


373 


ill  Ilia 
iGeof- 

)ffrey 
to  his 
irmed 
re  all 

must 
jamar 


shlekl.  But  that  cannot  be  told  now  ;  not  until  Jo- 
anna returns  and  gives  perniis.sion.  Sotue  hint  of  it 
}»o  drops,  necessarily  obscure,  before  he  j^oes.  No  phins 
aro  formed  for  the  present — it  is  uiidcrstooil  that  C-ol- 
onel  an<l  Mrs.  Ventnor  will  not  agree  to  any  long  en- 
gagement. 

"If  you  and  Olga  make  up  your  mind  to  wait  while 
you  win  your  way,"  he  says,  <leeisively,  "  it  nuist  be 
without  an  engagement.  1  will  not  have  her  fettered 
while  you  plod  slowly  upward, 


?» 


It  is  not  likely,  under  these  circumstances,  they  ^<^ill 
make  up  their  minds  to  wait.  Geoffrey  goes,  and  Olga 
is  petted  to  her  heart's  content.  For  Leo,  she  is  in  a 
seventh  heaven  of  rapture,  and  for  a  day  or  two  i)osi- 
tively  forgets  Frank.  Another  sister,  and  that  one  her 
darling  Olga  !  {Surely,  she  is  the  most  fortunate  girl 
in  the  world. 

And  now  here  is  Joanna  coming  back,  has  come 
indeed,  and  is  with  OeofFrey  already.  "Wait  until  I 
join  you,"  is  what  she  writes.  "  I  have  something  to 
say  to  you,  my  Leo,  that  I  prefer  to  say  there."  It  is 
now  late  on  Monday  evening — to-morrow  morning  will 
bring  her. 

To-ujorrow  comes.  Frank  is  at  the  station  to 
meet  her,  looking  worn  an<l  anxious,  as  he  has  grown 
of  late.  Latterh  his  misanthroin',  as  far  as  Leo  is 
concerned,  has  grown  upon  him  ;  he  distinctly  avoids 
her.  He  is  trving  to  be  true,  with  ;ill  his  might.  If 
he  could  flv  from  danger,  he  would  flv,  but  that  is  im- 
possible.  So  he  stays  on,  and  does  the  i)est  he  can, 
trying  to  think  a  great  deal  of  Joant)a  and  her  perfec- 
tions. Whether  she  airrees  or  not,  he  means  to  end 
this  as  soon  as  she  returns,  and  let  the  vvoild  know  of 


374 


now   JOANNA    SAID    OOODBY. 


^hH 


their  rcl.itious  to  each  other.  He  will  not  ask  her 
leave,  he  will  assert  himself,  he  will  siuii)!y  tell.  Then 
Leo  will  iHiderslaiMl.  'J'hey  will  he  (juielly  married, 
and  go  away  at  ouee.  And  little  Leo  will  forget — she 
is  such  a  child — an<l  he  liappy  with  some  iiappier  man. 

Tlie  train  stops,  and  a  tall  young  lady,  in  a  gray 
traveling  suit,  and  pretty  gray  iiat,  alights.  It  is 
Joanna,  looking  v/ell  and  hright,  and  almost  handsome. 
She  smiles  and  holds  out  her  hand  fraidily  at  sight  <if 
him,  hut  her  manner  is  more  that  of  a  cordial  friend 
than  of  the  woman  he  is  going  to  nnirry. 

"  How  well  you  are  looking,"  he  says.  "Your 
long  journey  seems  to  have  given  yoti  added  bloom, 
Joanna.      Y^ou  are  as  ♦'resh  as  any  rose." 

"It  must  he  a  yellow  rose,  then,"  says  Joanna, 
laughing,  "ami  pale  saffron  bloom.  I  am  sorry  I  can- 
not return  the  compliment.  You  are  looking  any- 
thing but  well,  Frank.  You  have  not  had  a  sun-stroke, 
I  hope,  this  summer?" 

She  speaks  lightly,  but  her  glance  is  keen,  and 
there  is  an  under-current  of  meaning  in  her  tone.  He 
fiusiies  slightly,  and  flecks  the  wheeler  lightly  with  his 
whip. 

"  Something  rather  like  it,  I  believe.  But  I  shall 
rapidly  grow  convalescent  now  that  you  are  back.  I 
have — we  all  have — missed  you,  Joanna." 

"  Thank  you,"  she  says,  gently.  "  That  is  a  good 
hearing.  I  like  my  friends  to  miss  rae.  How  are  they 
all?— well?" 

"Quite  well.  No  doubt  you  have  heard  the  won- 
derful news.     You  saw  Geoffrey?" 

"  Yes,  I  saw  him,"  smiling,  "  and  really  it  was  not 
such  wonderful  news.     I  did  not  faint  with  surprise 


now   .TOAXXA     SAID   r.OOD-nT. 


375 


her 

hc'ii 

•ie<l, 

-she 

nan. 

irray 

It  is 

otnc 

III  «.f 

r'uiul 

Youi* 
loom, 

3  anna, 
I  cati- 
;  any- 
itroke, 

fi,  and 
I.  lie 
ith  his 

shall 
:k.      I 

good 
[•e  they 

|e  won- 

ras  not 
lurprise 


AvIn'M  I  licanl  it,,  lliit  of  courso  I  am  dcliixhtcil,  moro 
tliati  (h'li^iitcd.  Sho  will  have  I  lie  nohh'sf  lmsl»aii»l  in 
till!  woild,  and  she  is  wortiiy  (if  liim.  Vou  are  sure 
you  feci  no  jealous  |>ani^,  Frank  ?"  lani^liini^. 


« 


Not  one.  I  sliall  Lcive  my  fair  cousin  my  hlessinj^ 
on  her  ucddiiiur-dav,  willi  the  s<nui(U'st  uf  hearts — 
uliere  sIm?  is  cttMccriu'd.  And  your  motln-r?"  lie  says, 
PJiiftiiiLC  skillfully  from  what  he  feels  to  he  <huiuferous 
ground.  "  You  have  hrought  lier  hack  safe  an<l 
well?" 

"Safe  and  well,  thank  Heaven — almost  as  well  in 
mind  as  in  hodv.  She  mijjrht  have  left  years  au'o,  poor 
darling;,  if  there  had  hecn  any  one  to  lake  her.  Ah  ! 
Frank,  I  feel  that  my  \shoIe  life  will  not  suttiee  to  re- 
pay her  for  what  she  has  suffered.  And  do  you  know, 
she  accepte*!  me  in  a  moment  as  her  eliild,  seemed  to 
know  me,  if  sutdi  a  thing  could  be  possible,  and  came 
with  me  so  gladly.  She  can  havdly  bear  me  a  moment 
out  of  her  sight." 

"  You  should  have  brought  her  down  witli  you.  It 
is  unfair  to  leave  her  even  for  a  few  days  now." 

"A  few  days!  jNTy  dear  Frank,  I  return  by  to- 
night's train.  Meantime  she  is  with  the  Professor  and 
"^ladarae  Ericson.  I  have  not  come  to  stay.  I  have 
t  ue" — lier  face  grows  grave— •*' on  very  important 
business,  and  part  of  it  is  with  you.  I  must  see  Leo 
first." 

He  is  stricken  dumb.  Their  names  in  this  conjunc- 
tion !  lie  grows  quite  wiiitc  as  he  leans  forward  to 
look  at  her. 

"  Joanna,  what  do  vou  mean  ?" 

She  hxys  her  hand  on  his,  Idndly,  gently,  but  vcy 
firmly. 


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23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  NY.  14580 

(716)  872-4503 


6^ 


876 


HOW  JOANNA     RATI)   OOOD-BY. 


'J' 


"^ot  now,  Frank — later.  T  must  first  see  Leo.  T 
want  her  to  go  witli  me  to  Abbott  Wood  this  nioin- 
ing.  I  have  a  fancy  for  saying  what  I  iiave  to  say  in 
the  dear,  beauliful  old  house  that  she  loves  so  well, 
and  where  she — tliey  all — were  so  good  to  Joanna. 
]\Irs.  Hill  will  give  us  lunch  there.  I  shall  not  return 
to  Ventnor  Villa  ;  and  if,  when  Leo  goes  back,  ydu 
will  come  in  her  stead,  I  will  say  good-by  to  you  as 
well." 

She  is  smiling,  but  her  eyes  look  dark  and  sad.  He 
sets  his  lips — even  they  are  pale. 

"  Good-by  !  Joanna,  what  are  you  saying?  There 
is  to  be  no  good-by  between  us  any  more.  You  are 
mine  ;  I  claim  3'ou.  I  am  going  to  announce  our 
engagement.     It  is  useless  for  you  to  object.     I  «;;«." 

"Ah,  well  !"  she  says,  wearily,  "wait — wait  until 
this  afternoon,  at  least.  I  am  a  little  tired  now,  and 
— and  dispirited,  I  think.  I  do  not  want  to  talk  of  it. 
Do  you  know."  brightening  suddenly,  and  smiling,  "  I 
met  an.  old  friend,  by  purest  chance,  in  the  streets  of 
San  Francisco.  It  was  so  good  to  see  him,  although  I 
had  every  reason  to  be  ashamed.  I  was  ashamed  too," 
she  laughs,  and  colors  a  little. 

"  Who  ?"  Frank  asks. 

"George  Blake — poor  George!  So  improved,  so 
brown,  so  manly-looking,  and  so  prosperous.  He  is 
editor  and  proprietor  of  a  daily  out  there,  and  doing 
well.  I  recognized  him  in  a  moment,  but  he  did  not 
know  me.  I  stopped  him,  however,  and  made  myself 
known — made  ray  peace  with  him  too,  I  am  happy  to 
say.  What  a  wretch  I  was  in  those  days  !  I  look 
back  now  and  wonder  if  '  I  be  I  ?'  You  never  saw  any 
one  so  glad  as  he  M'as  to  meet  me,  and  as  for  all  the 


ce  TiOO.  T 
lliis  morn- 
i  to  say  in 
es  so  >vc'll, 
to  Joanna, 
not  rutnrn 
i  back,  yon 
J  to  you  as 

,1(1  sad.    He 

ng  ?    There 
3.     Yon  are 
inounce  onr 
L'ct.     I  om:'' 
— wait  nntil 
ed  now,  and 
o  talk  of  it. 
smiling,  "  I 
e  streets  of 
although  I 
Rharaed  too," 


HOW   JOANNA    SAID   GOOD-BY. 


377 


Irapr 
irons. 


oved,  so 
Ho  is 


,  and  doing 
he  did  not 


Inade  myse 


If 


ira  happy  to 
lys!  I  look 
}ver  saw  any 
for  all  the 


good-natured  tilings  he  said  about  my  changed  appear- 
ance, and  so  on — but  you  would  think  me  frinhlfullv 
conceited  if  I  repeated  the  half.  What  is  co  the  ))oint 
is,  that  he  has  forgiven  me,  and  forgotten  me,  so  far 
as  his  old  faiicv  is  concerned.  He  is  enrjaged  to  bo 
married,  and  to  r^uite  a  rich  young  lady.  Is  not  all 
that  ])Ieasant  news?" 

But  Livingston  is  not  very  deeply  interested  in 
George  131ake,  or  his  successes,  editorial  or  matrimonial. 
He  is  filled  with  discpiiet  by  Joanna's  manner;  he  fears 
lie  knows  not  what.  She  laughs  an<l  talks  lightly 
enough,  but  underneath  it  all  he  sees  a  resolute  pur- 
pose, and  he  has  learned  to  fear  her  inflexible  resolu- 
tions. Why  should  she  so  connect  his  name  with 
Leo's?  what  does  she  suspect?  He  has  striven  hard 
to  be  loyal  and  true,  but  those  deep  dark  eyes  are  eyes 
not  easily  deceived.  The  drive  is  not  a  long  one,  but 
silence  has  fallen  long  before  they  reach  the  house. 

Joanna  is  met,  is  welcomed  by  the  Ventnors  with 
flattering  warmth,  is  embraced  by  Leo  and  her  mother 
with  effusion,  and  finally  has  a  private  interview  with 
the  latter  lady.  It  is  not  a  long  one,  but  Mrs.  Abbott 
is  very  pale  and  grave  when  it  is  over,  and  there  are 
traces  of  recent  tears. 

"  It  is  like  you,  Joanna  !"  is  what  she  says  ;  "  I  can 
say  nothing  more  than  that.  You  are  generosity  itself. 
I  can  only  echo  Geoffrey's  words,  and  leave  the  decis- 
ion to  Leo,  unbiased.  She  is  a  child  in  most  things, 
but  in  this  she  must  judge  for  herself.  You  are  her 
sister,  and  your  wishes  should  have  weight.  Tell  her, 
and  it  shall  be  as  she  says." 

"I  have  no  fear  then,"  Joanna  says,  gayly.  "Leo 
has  common  sense,  if  sue  is  a  child,  and  is  free  from 


i 


I    : 


378 


HOW   JOAXXA     RAID   GOOD. BY. 


^  ■X 


fino-drawn  notions  and  wicked  pride.  Leo,  dear,  run 
and  pui  on  your  hat.  I  will  drive  you  over  to  Abbott 
Wood,  if  Miss  Ventnor  will  trust  her  ponies  to  my 
care.      I  am  rpiile  a  skilled  charioteer,  I  assure  you." 

"To  Abbott  Wo(;d  ?"  Leo  says,  opening  wide  the 
velvet  black  eyes. 

"  Yes,  dear  ;  and  we  will  lunch  there  together. 
Quite  like  old  times — will  it  not  be  ?  Do  not  be  a 
minute.  I  will  say  good-by  to  tiie  others  while  you 
are  gone." 

"  Good-by  V"  cries  Leo,  witli  dismay  ;  but  Joanna 
has  left  her,  and  is  already  explaining  the  necessity 
for  her  return  that  very  night.  She  cannot  leave  her 
mother,  who  pines  and  frets  in  lier  absence.  So  slie 
says  farewell  there  and  tiien,  to  Mrs.  Abbott  as  well 
as  the  rest. 

"We  go  south  very  shortly,"  Joanna  says,  "and 
will  pass  the  winter  in  Florida.  Next  spring,  wijen 
we  return,  of  course  my  first  visit  will  be  here." 

FranJ^  is  there  as  well  as  the  rest,  but  to  him  she 
does  not  hold  out  her  hand. 

"  Come  and  fetch  Leo  back  this  afternoon,"  she 
savs.     "  I  can  make  my  adieiix  to  you  then." 

She  and  Leo  depart,  and  Livingston  quits  the 
family  grou]),  anci  is  seen  no  more  by  any  member  of 
the  liousehold.  It  is  a  day  he  will  not  easily  forget  ; 
the  suspense,  the  dread,  the  pain  he  feels,  grave  them- 
selves on  his  memory,  making  this  a  day  apart  from 
all  other  days  in  his  life. 

Meantime  the  ponies  prance  along  and  speedily  do 
the  five  miles  between  Ventnor  Villa  and  Abbott 
Wood.  It  is  a  perfect  day — sunny,  cloudless,  breezy, 
with  the  odor  of  the  sea  in  the  crisp  air,  and  Abbott 


flcar,  run 

X'  Abbott 
es  to   my 
e  you." 
wide  the 

together. 

not  be  a 

vhilc  you 

It  Joanna 

necessity 

leave  her 

So  she 

t  as  well 


y« 


(( 


'^> 


and 


ng,  Wiicn 

e>' 

)  him  she 

oon,"  she 

jiiits  the 
ember  of 
I  forget ; 
ive  them- 
)art  from 

eedily  do 

Abbott 

s,  breezy, 

[3  Abbott 


now   JOANNA    RAID   GOOD-BY.  87p 

Wood  looking  more  like  an  ancestral  park  and  baro- 
n.a   hall  than  ever.     They  sweep    up   the   noblo  drive 

and  ah.  t  n.  front  of  the  lH>use.  \.....u  nr.s  g,o  v^ 
filed  w,.h  tropwal  plants;  the  flower-beds  blaze  in 
their  autumn  glory  ;  the  deer  look  at  them  with  wild 
sl.y  oyes  ;  fountains  ,i„kl.  and  ,)lash-all  is  in  porfe.-t 
order.  So  ,s  the  house  in  as  exquisite  keeping  as  when 
U.  m.stress  re,gn..d  there.  Leo's  eyes  light  as  th.-v 
^^^-^^^^-^    beauty.     She  laughs    a   lit.le,   then 

"It  is  so  lovely,"   she  says-"  the  dear,  dear  old 
l>ome  !     Go  where  I  will  I  see  nothin-.  like  it  '" 
;' You  love  it,  then  ?"  Joar.na  quietiv  asks.  ' 
Love   Jt  !"  Leo  repeats.      Her  eye;  fbsh,  her  lips 
pait,  then  she  stops      She  nn.st  not  seem  too  fo„.l  if 
.t  now,  she  remembers,  lest  Joanna  thinks  lu-r  envious. 
Of  course  I  am  fond  of  it,"  she  says.     "  I  was  born 
■c-re,  ,u,d  every  tree,  and   every  flower,  and  bird  seem 
^keo'dfnends.     But  it  will  always  seem  Hke  home  to 
me   now  that  .t  ks  yours.     If  it  had  gone  ^o  a  stran.^er 
I  th.rik  .t  would  almost  have  broken  my  heart."      "    ' 

I)ear  little  loving  heart !»  Joanna  interposes  with 
a  smile.  ' 

sister^'"'.  ''    ''  'T"'  '"^^    ^""   "'■'  "^y  «^^"    P'-^'--'« 
SLstei,     goes  on  Leo,  gayly,  "  and  I  shall  expect  you 

to  invite  me  here  often.     You  are  not  to  forget  your 
poor  relations,  you  know,  Mile.  Fifty  Millions  '" 
Joanna  pauses,   and   looks  down   upon   her.      She 

ays  both  hands  on  her  shoulders  and  smiles  down  into 
her  eyes.  Ver>  sweet,  and  youthful,  and  fair  is  little 
Leo,  with  her  pretty  upturned  face,  and  large  lumi- 
nous Southern  eyes.  * 

"It  must  be  the   other  way,"   she   says.      "You 


i 


••       -    W! 


) 


\v    f 


ii 

I 


■  ii 

■A  ' 


lis     i■^ 


880 


now   JOANNA    SATD   OOODBY. 


miist  invite  we  here,  little  Leo — for  Abbott  Woofl  is 
yours." 

"  Mine  !"  The  dark  eyw  open  wide,  and  stare, 
*'  Yes,  my  darling — yours  and  yours  only.  From 
this  day  you  are  the  little  cJidtelaine  of  Abbott  Wood. 
Do  von  think  T  would  keen  your  birthriccht — the 
liouse  where  you  were  born  ?  the  place  you  love  so 
dearly,  where  you  were  so  good — so  good — to  me  ? 
Ah,  no  !  I  never  thought  of  that.  I  meant  to  restore 
it  to  you  from  the  lirst.  You  are  my  sistt-r,  my 
fiither's  daughter.  It  was  f(^r  you  lie  intended  it,  and 
yours  it  shall  be.  Do  not  look  at  me  with  sueh  won- 
der-stricken eyes.  Could  you  think  so  badly  of  me  as 
to  dream  T  would  keep  it?     I  would  not  live  here  if  I 

could.       There    are    reasons "    she    stops    for    a 

moment.  "  No,  little  Leo,  it  is  yours,  all  the  ]>roeesse8 
of  law  have  been  duly  fultilled.  It  is  yours  by  free 
deed  of  gift,  and  with  it  half  the  fortune  our  father 
left.  What  should  1  do  with  so  much  money?  Even 
half  is  the  embarrassment  of  riches.  T  can  never 
spend  my  incouie.  It  was  for  this  I  stopped  on  my 
way  here,  to  speak  to  Geoffrey.  I  knew  you  would 
do  nothing  without  his  consent,  lie  would  have  no 
voice  in  the  matter,  he  left  it  entirely  to  you.  It  wns 
to  tell  your  mother,  I  saw  her  alone  this  morning — 
she,  too,  leaves  it  altogether  to  you.  But  I  do  not 
— you  must  accept.  There  is  no  compulsion,  you 
know,  Leo,  dear,"  says  Joanna,  laughing  and  kissing 
her,  "only  you  7nust !  And  although  you  cannot 
live  here  alone,  and  though  neither  your  mother  nor 
brother  will  ever  live  here  with  you,  I  foresee  Abbott 
Wood  will  not  be  long  without  a  mistress.  I  foresee," 
goes  on  Joanna,  her  hands  still  on  Leo's  shoulders,  her 


r. 

3tt  Woofl     19 

n(\  stnro. 
Tilly.  From 
)b()tt  Wood, 
liviglit — tlie 
y^oii  lovo  so 
1(1 — to  mo  ? 
lit  to  restore 

sister,  my 
Tided  it,  and 
h  sucli  woii- 
lly  of  mo  as 
vo  lioi'o  if  I 
tops  for  a 
he  processes 
nu's  by  free 
i  our  father 
ney  ?  Even 
f  can  never 
)ped  on  my 
■  you  would 
lid  have  no 
oil.     It  was 

morning — 
lit  I  do  not 
)nlsion,  you 
and  kissinnr 
you  cannot 
mother  nor 
.'See  Abbott 

I  foresee 


» 


oulders,  her 


HOW  JOANXA   SAID    OOOD-BY.  381 

smiling  eyes  still  on  Leo's  face,  -  that  you  will  soon 
reign  here,  and  nut  alone,  and  1  hope-uh,  my  little 
Leo,  with  all  my  heart  I  hope  you  may  be  very,  very 
nappy  !"  •/  j}        j 

Ilor  voice  breaks.     Leo  flings  h,r  arms  about   her 
and    hides  her  face   on   her   breast.     She   is   sobbin- 
wliether  with  joy,  with  love,  with  gratitude,  or  with 
pam,  she  hardly  knows. 

Happy  !     Ah,  if  Joanna  only  knew  how   unhanpv 
she  IS  !  ^  *  •'^ 

"l-I  don't  know  what  to  say,"   she  sobs,  wildly. 

I   never  thought   of   this.     It   is    like   robbing    vou, 

Joanna.    Oh,  I  don't  know  what  to  do.    I  ought  not  to 

take  this-it  is  your  house-I  cannot  bear  to  take  it 

troin  you." 

"Luckily  you  liave  no  choice.     It  is  vouis  in  spite 
ot  you  !     If  you  refused  it  would  only  be  left  to  the 
rats  and  Mrs.  Hill  for  the  term  of  their  natural   lives 
Lut   you  will   not  refuse,  and    one  day  all    my  predic- 
tions will  come  true.     Oh,  never  look  'so  despondent- 
trust  me,  Joanna  is  among  the  prophets.     And  now 
wipe  those  pretty  eyes,  and  let  us  consider  the  matter 
settled,  and   at  an   end  forever.     No  more  thanks   or 
tears,  or  scenes-they  make  me  almost  as  uncomfor- 
table as  it  I  were  a  man.     It  is  luncheon   hour,  and 
here  I  protest  is   Frank  Livingston    coming   up    the 
avenue.     Leo,  before  he  comes,  I  want  you  to  toll  him 
all  about  this  to-morrow-I  mean   my  story,  relation- 
ship to  you,  and  so  on.     Geoffrey  has  to   tell  Colonel 
Ventnor,  of  course;  I  have  given  him  permission.    And 
with  that   we   will   let  it   drop,  the   world  will   never 
know.     I  shall  take  my  rightful  name-Bennett-and 
you  will  keep  yours  until  you  exchange  it  for- 


)) 


now  JOANNA    SAID  GOOD-BT. 

"  Mr.  Livingston,"  says  Mrs.  Hill,  suddtMily  usher- 
ing him  in. 

Joanna  looks  at  Leo  and  laughs,  and  Loo  blushes 
to  the  temples,  as  both  go  forward  to  greet  hira. 

They  take  their  midday  refection  together,  and  try 
to  talk  easily,  but  both  a])])etile  and  conversation  are 
failures.  Everything  Mrs.  Hill  can  do  to  tenij)t  them 
she  has  done,  but  no  one  is  at  ease.  Joanna  looks  calm, 
and  in  spite  of  everything,  is  perhaps  a  trifle  amused 
by  the  UKirked  avoidance,  of  her  two  guests.  She  reads 
it  all  so  plainly,  and  if  there  is  any  pain  at  her  own 
heart,  f-he  resolutely  puts  it  away.  She  has  made  up 
her  mind  to  the  inevitable,  and  to  look  back  and  weep 
for  what  is  forever  gone  is  not  her  way. 

After  luncheon  they  wander  about  the  grounds  for 
awhile  ;  then  Leo  is  summoned  away  by  Mrs.  Mill  to 
Bee  some  of  her  former  pets,  and  Joanna  and  Fiank 
stroll  back  to  the  house.  The  afternoon  has  worn  on 
— the  sun  is  declining  ;  Joanna  looks  at  her  watch  aa 
they  stand  side  by  side  at  one  of  the  windows  com 
manding  a  wide  view  of  the  sparkling  sunset  sea. 

"  Five,"  she  says  ;  "my  train  goes  at  seven.  Two 
good  hours  yet.     We  will  have  time  for  some  tea  pres- 


ently— a  sort  of  stirrup-cup  to  speed  my  departure." 

"Joanna!"  Livingston  breaks  out,  "this  must  end. 
You  torture  me — cannot  you  see  that?  You  are  like 
ice — like  stone — you  care  nothing  for  me  at  all.  Itovv 
coolly  you  talk  of  going — of  leaving  me  for  an  indefi- 
nite period.   Do  you  forget  you  are  my  promised  wife  ?" 


I  ha\ 


?5 


ve  a  gootl   memory,    Joanna  says, 


but  I 


as 


suredly  do  not  remember  that.     I  have  never  promised 
you  anything  in  my  life." 

"  Have  you  not '?"  he  demands.     "  What  is  it,  ther  } 


now   JOAXNA     SAID   GOOD-BY. 


383 


ily  usher- 

0  blushes 
im. 

r,  aii<l  try 
;ation  ave 
iii])t,  them 
fjoks  calm, 
lo  amused 
Sl\e  reads 
L  her  own 
i  made  up 
,  and  weep 

rounds  for 
[rs.  Hill  to 
md   Frank 
18  worn  on 
watch  as 
dows  com 
ict  sea. 
ven.     Two 
e  tea  pres- 
parture." 
must  end. 
u  are  like 
all.     How 
r  an  indefi- 
sed  wife?" 
"but  I  as 
r  promised 

is  it,  ther  f 


Have  I  not  asked  you  to  marry  me  ?    Do  you  not  wear 


lay 


I'lntr- 


» 


She  hohls  out  both  hands — riui^lcs.* 


(( 


As  my  hands,  so  my  heart — free.  Yes,  you  liave 
asked  me,  and  I — I  have  said  nothing,  only  this  one 
Avord  from  iirst  to  hist — wait.  You  have  waited — - 
well,  your  waiting  is  at  an  end.  That  is  why  I  wished 
to  see  you  here — to  say  that.  If  you  ever  asked  me 
to  marry  you,  ever  made  me  any  promise,  ever  held 
yourself  bound  to  me,  I  give  it  all  back.  You  too  are 
free." 

lie  cannot  speak.  IIo  sta.ids  looking  at  her,  so 
pale,  so  conscience-stricken,  that  she  lays  her  hand 
lightly  for  a  moment  on  his. 

"  Do  not  blame  yourself  too  much,"  she  says,  kind- 
ly ;  "do  not  blame  yourself  at  all.  Indeed,  you  de- 
serve none.  You  have  tried — do  vou  think  I  have  r'ot 
seen? — and  failed.  That  has  been  )io  fault  of  yours. 
You  never  loved  me,  Frank — no,  not  for  one  poor  mo- 
ment. You  thought  so  that  night  you  were  '  Carried 
by  Storm  ' — do  you  recall  your  ow!i  words  ?  They  ex- 
pressed it  exactly  ;  but  love  me — never  !  Trust  a 
woman  to  know  when  she  is  beloved.  Excitement,  a 
moment's  impulse,  carried  you  away — when  you  h;id 
time  to  think,  you  repented.  You  would  not  own  it 
even  to  yourself — all  the  same  it  was  there.  You  did 
youi  best,  your  very  best,  to  be  faithful,  but  there  are 
things  that  are  spoiled  by  trying.  Love  is  one  of  them. 
And  you  know  I  never  could  accept  that.  In  the  com- 
mon acceptation  of  the  terra  I  am  not  proud,  but  I  am 
far  too  proud  to  accept  a  husband  after  such  fashion 
as  that.  If  I  cannot  be  beloved,  I  will  go  to  my  grave 
unmarried.     And  I  am  quite  sure  that  so  I  will  go. 


384 


HOW   JOAN^fA     SAID   OOODRY. 


iV 


h  ■  !■'. 


m     1 


And  now,  Frank,  yon  are  froo — free  as  the  wind  tliat 
blows,  and  W(!  arc  t'riends,  good  friends,  oiuie  a<^airj 
and   forever." 

She  holds  out  her  hand,  hut  he  does  not  see  it. 
He  has  tui'ncd  from  lier,  and  is  i)acin<j^  to  and  fro, 
bitterness  on  his  face,  in  his  heart.  Inconsistently 
enough,  the  keenest  s(!nse  of  loss  he  has  ever  felt  is 
U|)oti  hitn  in  this  hour. 

"You  never  cared  for  me — it  is  easy  for  you  to  say 
all  this,"  he  says,  bitterness  in  his  tone  as  well. 

She  sriiiles  sliohtly,  and  turns  away,  and  looks  far 
off  at  the  golden  afternoon  haze  over  the  sea.  Weak 
and  unstable  he  is,  and  she  knows  him  to  be,  but  lie 
has  power  to  bring  a  sharp  contraction  to  her  heart 
still. 

"Never  cared  for  you  f"  she  repeats,  dreamily. 
"  Frank,  come  here — do  not  be  angry  ;  let  us  talk  as 
friends.  Yes,  I  cared  for  you.  When  I  was  a  little 
child,  a  little,  beaten,  barefoot  child,  I  cared  for  you. 
When  you  used  to  come  to  Sleaford's,  you  were  in  my 
eyes  as  some  beautiful  and  glorified  young  prince." 
She  laughs  as  she  says  it,  but  with  a  tremor  in  the  clear 
voice.  "  I  fell  in  love  with  you  even  t'len.  You  never 
saw  me,  you  know,  in  those  days,  and  wiiat  wonder  ? 
I  thought  Lora  Sleaford  the  most  enviable  creature  in 
the  world,  because  you  seemed  to  like  her  ;  I  hated 
your  cousin  because  you  seemed  so  fond  of  her.  In 
after  years,  when  we  used  to  meet  liere,  I  believe,  with- 
out knowing  i(,  I  was  wildly  jealous  of  Olga,  of  Leo, 
of  every  prettv  girl  who  came  near  you.  And  when  I 
ran  away  with  George  Blake,  do  you  know  what  kept 
rae  from  marrying  him  ?  Simply  because  I  saw  you — 
you  passed    hrough   the  hotel  hall,  and  out  into  the 


HOW   JOAX>   V     SAID    (JOOD-RY. 


nsf) 


Street,  ami  I  fonhl  nof.     I  imii  aw.iv.     I  carod  for  you 


\\(\  that 
e  agi^i" 

t,  flee  it. 
and  fro, 
sisleiitly 
r  felt  is 

ou  to  say 

looks  far 
L.     Weak 
,0,  but  he 
lier  lieart 

dreamily. 
IS  talk  as 
IS  a  little 
for  yon. 
ere  in  my 
a  prince." 
^  the  clear 
Ton  never 
wonder  ? 
iveatnre  in 
•j  I  hated 
her.     Tn 
eve,  with- 
:i,  of  Leo, 
id  when  I 
,vhat  kept 
jaw  you — • 
into  the 


tl 


len,  (III 


1  I 


not 


And 


since,    wIlcM     we     MK't,   illld     \(>'l 


knew  Tiie,  I  was  ijlad — all,  .Lc'-'d,  ulad  ;  and  when  I 
tliounlil  you  wei-e  beiiinnin<j^  to  cire  for  ine,  I  seemed 
not  to  liavi'  a  wish  left  i!i  all  the  worM.  1  wonder  why 
I  tell  you  all  this?  I  ought  not,  I  know,  hut  it  hurls 
me  wlien  you  say  it  is  easy  for  me  to  jj^ive  you  up.  It 
is  not  easy — it  is  only  right.  And  when  that  night  yuu 
asked  me,  1  was  glad — ah,  gladder  than  y«<u  will  ever 
know.      Only  for  a  lilt  le  ;   hefore  an    hour    was    ove!'   I 


feared — when  to-morrow  v,\\\\v  I  / 


IH'ti' 


And  f 


•(ini 


that 


time  I  ne\-er  meant  lo  hold  you  to  yom-  word.  I  c.iri^ 
for  you  so  miu'h,  I'^iMiik,  my  friend,  my  hrothei',  that  I 
give  you  up.  -We  would  nevei'  he  happv.  Voii  would 
repent,   and   I   wou 


Id   see   it,  ami    it-    would    i)reak    uiv 


heart.      Indeed    it 


wouM,  i 


•   I 

r  fc 


u'cre    ^■oul•   wiie 


am 


I    I 


Drefer  an  unbroken  heart..  \  feel  this  farewell  now — 
so,  ])erhaps,  do  you,  in  a  dilTerent  way,  I)ut  it  wiii  not 
hiu't  either  of  us,  1  ho])e,  vei'v  badly,  liut  you  believe 
nie,  I'^'ank,  Ihat  it  is  because  I  have  cared  for  you,aiul 
do,  that  I  give  you  up  V 

She  holds  out  her  hand  again.  This  time  he  takes 
it  in  both  his.  He  cannot  speak  ;  what  is  there  to 
say?  It  is  the  saddesl,  gentlest,  humblest  moment  of 
his  life.  Her  face,  too,  is  sad  ;  her  eyes  wistful,  her 
ga/e  still  lingers  on  that  fading  light  upon  the  sea. 

"  And  when  we  have  parted,"  -loanna  goes  on,  after 
that  j>ause,  "and  you  meet  some  one  you  really  love, 
and  whom  you  know  loves  you,  remembei"  you  are  to 
let  no  foolish  scruple  about  all  this  hold  you  back,  or 
mar  the  happiness  of  that  other.  And  if,"  slowly,  "  it 
is  any  one  for  wdiom  I  care,  the  obligations  will  be 
more  binding  still.  If  you  feel  you  owe  lue  anything, 
17 


'Am 


now   JOA.VXA     SAID    (JOOI)  HY. 


t- 


^  •■I    V     i 


n'p.iy  It  ill  tlijit  way.  I  will  uiidcislaiMl  ;m<l  njoico. 
'I'«i-iiH'n(n\-  llitTcaic  things  l.co  will  Icll  yii.  Why 
<!<>  yon  siail  ',-'  \ao  is  not  an  alaiiniiii^  pcrxonai^c — ■ 
tiiiii'^M  you  oiir.!ii,  lo  know,  ami  wlii'-h  I  prefer  yoii 
sIioui<l  hear  llrsl  I'lonj  her.  Aixl  now  I  am  tire<l  tajlv- 
lii'4,  ami  here  come  {jcn  and  .Mrs.  Hill,  I'erhaps  wo 
can  ha'.'e  iliaL  lea.  Ii  is  time,  for  !  am  ihii'sty,  ami 
must.  s(;on  ho  off.  Can  we  not  have  tea  out  nmlcr  tho 
trees,  yivn.  Hill  V  U  is  so  delicious  hci'e  in  sioht  of 
the  sea." 

So  they  have  (ea,  ami  l!ie  r- past  is  (-vcn  )nore  >i!<.'nt 
than  the  luncheon.  Tlu;  two  youny-  ladies  do  their 
best,  but  LiviuLfston  simply  cannot  talk.  His  lieart  is 
fnil,  und  in  it  there  is  little  room  for  any  Init  Joanna 
jus!  now.     UMien  il  is  over.     ,Ioanmv  looks  at,  her  w.itch 


again. 


"  Half-past  six,  I  want  to  say  goodd^y  her<',  and 
see  you  two  olT  before  i  ilej.art  myself.  Mi's,  Hill, 
please  ha\H'  them  l>ring  tin;  buggy  round  lo  tak(Mne  lo 
thest.alion.      Leo — Frank!" 

And  then  the  supreme  moment  has  come,  and  Leo's 
arms  ai"e  around  her,  and  Leo  is  sol)bing  on  her  breast. 
She  holds  out.  both  hands  to  Livingston,  with  tears  in 
tlie  brave,  bright  eyes. 

"'J^ake  her  away  "  she  says,  in  a  stifled  voice  ;  "  I 
cannot  l)ear  it.  Bo  goo<l  to  her,  Frank.  God  b'g;'ss 
you  both  !" 

And  then,  somehow,  she  is  a!>jne,  and  thoy  are  gone, 
and  a  last  burst  of  yellow  sunshine  takes  them,  and 
tliey  ai-e  lost  to  view. 

She  sits  down  and  covers  her  face,  with  a  long, 
hard  breath.  Some  oft-quoted  lines  come  into  her 
head,  and  keep  echoing  there,  and  will  not  be  exorcised, 


WT':i)I)rN(i    HKLLfl. 


:ks7 


after  the  r:ishi<Mi  of  siicli  tliiii^'-i.  "So  tirrd,  so  tiiT<I, 
my  lic'irl  himI  I!"  Slic  Is  coiiscioiis  of  rc'.'rui;^  tiii'il, 
t)l<l,  cold,  w orii-oiit.  She  sit^,  :i  Ioiil^  time,  il  -i'cin>  lo 
licr — le-ii  iMimitcs  l)y  Mrs.  HilTs  coiiii! — mimI  l!n';i  lliat 
))orily  miitron  iTliinis,  aii-I  >;!)•;  lln'  c.iniML;''  is  \v;iil  iii;j,'. 
.Io;iiiii;i  I'isc's  ;it  oiKH'.  Slic  is  pale,  and  hvv  eyes  uro 
vv(.'t,  I)ii1  lliat  is  iialural  ciiounli.  Slu'  says  oood-hy  to 
Mi'H.  Hill,  and  slips  lai'!L;'<'^sc'  into  iii'f  p.dni,  an>l  uocs. 
And  all  iIk'  way  to  the  stalion,  and  all  tlic  way  i)a(lv 
to  N(nv  Vork,  as  the  ti',.  ii  lliundci's  over  llie  iron  roa<l, 
it  keej)s  nion(»lon(»nsly  licatinL?  <>nt  the  retrain,  '*  So 
tired,  so  tired,  my  heart  and   I." 


-♦♦^ 


CIIAI'TKK   XII. 


W  E  D  I)  I  N  (1     ]{  K  I.  L  S  . 

ARLY  that  antumn  there  is  a  fashionabio 
wedding  in  New  York,  and  the  l)eantirid 
heiress,  Miss  Olga  Veiitnor,  is  the  hride. 
The  bridegroom,  personally,  is  nnknown  to 
fame;  but  the  dear  "live  hundred''  can  see  lor  tiiem- 
selves  tliat  he  is  a  very  stately  and  dislingnishciMook- 
ing  gentleman,  and  this  goes  far  to  condone  his  ob- 
scurity. His  name,  too,  tuils  for  him,  one  of  the  lino 
old  names  of  the  South — '' Hne  old  family,  my  dear, 
impoverished  us  so  many  iine  old  families  have  been,  by 
the  recent  war,"  etc.  That  the  bride,  in  white  satin 
and  point  lace,  and  orange  blossoms,  an<l  diamond 
stars,  looks  lovely,  you  know  before  I  tell  you.  That 
the  wedding  presoits  are  numerous  and  splendid,  the 
wedding  breakfast  a  triumph  of    culinary    art  ;    that 


388 


WKDDING    HELLS. 


tlio  spi'ccli  of  the  bridoiiroom  is  iiotiiblu  among  stam- 
iiicriii!^  1)Vm1,i1  si)ec'('!K's — avr  iio(,  these  thiii'.-'s  wriHcii 
in  the  chronich's  ol'  thr  hooks  of  Jenlviiis  — h.ive  you 
not  i-ead  it,  all  in  the  d.-iily  j.'itiei's,  and  shall  I  hore  yoii 
■vvitli  a  t  wiee-lold  tale?  "  liinneilintely  a.t'ler  the  break- 
fast, the  happy  |)air  depai'U'd  for  i^^ui'ope,"'  etc,  e!e. 

Tniis  far  Olua  and  (leoirrey,  ?tlrs,  Abbott  anil  Leo 
g-o  back  to  tlu'ir  ,sid)iirl)an  reire;it,  their  birds,  their 
books,  their  piano,  their  quiet  life.  Abbott  Wood 
knows  no  ehanu'e — .Mrs.  Hill  sli!l  reiu^ns  su])renu'.  Jo- 
anna is  I'in'ht  in  lu'r  pi'edietion  that  Leo's  mother  will 
never  again  <lwell  within  its  walls. 

"  ^Vll  iiouses  wherein  men  liave  lived  and  died  are 
liaunte<l  houses." 

Abbott  Wood  is  to  her  a  haunted  house,  haunted  by 
torrible  memories  and  a  dread  I  id  death. 

For  Frank  Tjivingston,  he  goes  to  New  York,  sots 
up  his  easel  and  atelier,  and  goes  to  work  with  an  en- 
oruv  and  will  th.'it  astonish  his  fi'iends.  His  ia/y  in- 
soucianee  is  gone — hn  is  a  liolitlay  artist,  playing  at 
picture-making,  no  moi'e.  What  is  given  him  to  do^ 
he  does  with  all  his  might.  It  is  no  ufi'OJit  things,  per- 
haps— lie  is  no  embryo  Raphael  or  Doro — but  his  best 
lie  doe.^  And  he  has  a  fail'  success.  We  paints  a  ])io- 
ture  that  winter  that  is  ^whibited,  and  criticised,  and  a 
good  deal  talked  about,  lielter,  a  very  rich  man,  and 
a  patron  of  native  talent,  buys  it  at  a  fancy  price.  It 
is  a  twiligl'.t  scene — somt;  bare  brown  hehis,  a  dreary 
ox))anse  of  arid  marsh,  a  gray  frowning  sky,  a  chill 
M'ind.  You  can  f<'c/  the  chill  rustliiiLi:  of  the  ree(ls  and 
sedge  grass,  a  broken  rail  fence,  and  a  barefoot  jdrl 
leaning  upon  it.  Her  wild  hair  blows  in  the  wind,  her 
lace  is  wan  and  unchildlike  ;  her  eyes,  fixed  on  the  far- 


WKDDINQ    HELLS. 


38;} 


It  .«  J«a,n,a,  of  course,  a.s  hu  ha.,  ofto,,  .,.o„  l,,,-  i„ 
'I  o  Ja.v.s  wl,e„  1,0  thought  ol  he,-  so  litUe      II,        f 
of  her  now    .,Imw.,*  .  "i-lil.     ii(>  tinnks 

vi   111.1  iiuw,  iiuiiost    nioi"(>    I  1)11    .  r 

•"';f  oa  a,reeuo,,,  a,,,:;,.:;: 'irL;;:,:'^^'';;'': 

Jo  ,s  to  t,-y  l,j.  eo„s,a,.t  i,u,,l   ,.,,^      ,     ;„„:^"    '''  '•'"' 
so   little  „ea,e,-  he,-   I,.,,.!       I,  •'1'I""^hIi   eve,- 

«.-..,.„  ,„„  o„  to  ji„  f,,,.,,;:;-";,:,!:::  "-^ 
t>--isa,o,,gf,,,,,::t,.:i,'th::''"-"-''''' '--'•'- 

Sj)nng  comes— 3Ia3s  June. 

Witli  ti.e  erul  of  June  returns  the  we.lded  ,..1,. 
^0  |ng  happy  and  handsome,  and  abso.  ed  n  12 
o  lie  ,  of  course.  Almost  immediately  thev  <.-o  1 
■bnofhtbrook.     The  Ventnor«  .,,.    .     /•  ..  '     ^ 

of  weeks,  a,Kl  M,-s.  Abbo  t    ,  ."l  '"'  "'  "  "'""'" 

spen,,  the  ho,K,a,s  wit'.'tt  ,  "'  M  :  "Z^Tfr'  '" 
fov  he,-  son,  JI,-s.  Veut„„,-  fo,-  he.-  a,^^"'  "  """' 
.o.th,.a,.ea,ltobe..e„..He,the^^ 

IMS  F,-a„k  I.ivingston    «ho  drives  Ob^a  ,lo>v„  ,0 
tlestat,o„  to   „,eet  the  expeeted   snesls/^  T le  e  lor 
flushes  ,nto  l.tllo  Ws  face  at  si„ht  of  hi„,-li,   j 
su,-,n-,se-,,otl,i„,,  l,as  been  said  of^his  e„n>i„l  " 

And  ,i,deed  he  did  not  want  to  come  '''s->v.  . 
vo.-el,-,  Mrs.  Dr.  Lamar.     «he  .nakes  tht  "mlt  XV:." 


t\ 


300 


WEDDING    BELLS. 


■n 


<  1 


Iff  • 

[!; 


u 


iiig  and  radiant  of  young  matrons.  "  We  liad  almost 
lotcai'liim  l)y  forci;  from  his  boloved  studio.  You 
may  si'o  for  yoursell"  how  hadly  lie  is  looking — quite 
old  and  ugly.  And  he  usee]  to  be  fairly  good-looking 
— now,  used  ho  not,  little  Leo  '?" 

And  of  course  at  this  malicious  home-thrust  poor 
little  Leo  is  overwhelmed  wilh  confusion,  and  wis';es 
the  carriage  wtnild  open  and  swallow  hei".  Frank 
laughs  lazily,  lie  is  looking  rather  thin,  but  perfectly 
well  in  all  other  respects.  And  there  is  an  expression 
of  manliness,  of  gravity,  of  determination  on  his  hand- 
some face,  which  is  new  and  extremely  becoming;. 

"  His  latest  work  of  art,"  says  Olga  Lamar,  on  the 
back  seat,  to  Leo,  "  is — guess  what  ?  A  pictui'e  of  i/ou. 
It  is  painted  from  memory,  and  the  commission  is  mine 
— as  you  looked  in  your  briflemaid  dress,  dear — I  never 
saw  you  look  so  pretty  as  you  did  tiiat  day.  What  a 
trick  the  child  lias  of  blushing  !  lie  has  brouu'ht  it 
down  with  him,  and  will  finish  it  here.  It  is  for  my 
particular  sitting-room.  Do  you  know,  we  are  going 
to  live  in  Briglitbrook,  and  Geoffrey  will  actually  prac- 
tice in  the  village.  They  want  a  doctor,  and  he  wants 
work.  Of  course  we  v.dll  go  to  New  York  in  winter, 
but  to  all  intents  and  purposes  the  villa  will  be  home. 
Home!  Is  it  not  a  sweet  word?  \Ye  are  enlarofimjj 
and  Improving  it,  ,n  a  number  of  ways.  And  we  arc 
going  to  settle  down  into  the  most  liumdrnm  Diirby 
and  Joan  life  you  can  imagine.  And  speaking  of  Joan, 
reminds  me  of  Joanna — dear  Joanna  !  Geolfroy  had 
a  letter  from  her  last  night,  and  oh,  Leo  !  siie  will  not 
come.  Says  she  is  going  to  England  for  the  summer  ; 
lier  mother  wishes  to  visit  her  native  laud  once  more. 
Is  it  not  too  bad  ?    And  I  counted  so  confidently  on 


■VVEDDrXG    liELLS. 


391 


lior  spoM.linor  July  aiHl  Aiious(  with  s.s.  But  so  it  ovrr 
IS.  1  woui.l  liavo  my  lii\'-j.ic!ures  like  Qiu-t-  Eliza- 
l)c[l.\s  portrait,  without  .slia.lou-,  a.i.l  it  cauuoi  he.  J„. 
anna  IS  the  -ray  l.ackgroimd  this  timo,  an.]  vt-s— tho 
fact  tliat  AbhotL  Wood  isstiil  without  aini.stross.  But 
yct~I  live  in  liopo  !" 

She  runs  on  gayiy,  and  iauo-hs  down  in  Leo's  soni- 
ber  soft  eyes.  She  is  so  radiantly  happv—tliis  fair  Prin- 
cess  Olga,  in  her  new  life,  that  sho  seems  to  Ijave  re- 
ceived a  fresli  baptism  of  brigliiness  an.l  l,eauty. 

Next  morning  the  famous  picture  is  dispKiyed— a 
soft-eyed,  sweet-faced  girl  in  white  silk  and  huvs,  with 
white  dowers  in  ],er  dusky  h.ir.  In  the  shv,  wide-open, 
wondering-looking  eyes,  there  is  an  unconscious  tmicli 
of  pathos. 

''Is  it  not  "harming?"  Olga  cries;  "and  do  you 
not  fall  in  love  witli  yourself,  little  Leo,  only  to  look 
at  It?  Zdo.  yx.d  what  have  you  got  that  pleading 
look  in  your  ejes  for,  and  wliy  do  you  seem  as  if  you 
wei-e  waiting  i'or  something  or— somebody  ?  Perhaps 
the  artist  knows.  Did  she  look  like  that  on  my  wed- 
ding-day, Frank  ?  As  groomsman,  you  ought  to' know. 
How  do  you  like  yourself,  Leo  ?" 

"It  is  much  too  pretty,"  Leo  answers,  blushing,  of 
course;  "it  is  dreadfully  flattered.  But  I  like  to  bo 
flattered— in  that  way,  I  think." 

"You  do  not  really  think  it  is  flattered  ?"  Living- 
ston says,  a  few  minutes  later. 

He  is  adding  some  finishing  touches  to  the  like- 
ness, and  has  asked  her  to  remain.  The  otliers  liave 
moved  away— they  are  alone,  with  only  the  summer 
wind  swinging  the  roses  outside  the  window,  the  bees 
booming,  and  the  birds  chirping  in  the  trees. 


392 


WEDDING    BELLS. 


i    \ 


"Indeed  I  do — grossly.      And  thai  exi)rcssion — \ 
Jim  sure  I  never  looked  like  that,"  with  a  little  pout, 


(< 


so  sentimental,  and  lackadaisical,  and  all  that 


5> 


"  Is  it  lackadaisical  ?"  says  the  artist,  laughing. 
"Then  I  think  I  like  lackadaisical  looks.  J5ut  you 
really  did  wear  just  that  pathetic  expression.  It  was 
a  sentimental  occasion,  you  know — and,  for  the  matter 
of  tliat,  you  often  have  that  waiting,  wistful  look. 
It  becomes  great,  dark,  Syrian  eyes,  I  think.  Do  you 
know  you,  have  real  Oriental  eyes,  Leo — long,  almond- 
shaped,  velvet-black." 

"I  think  I  must  look  like  a  Chinese,"  i-emarks  Leo, 


resignedly. 


(lb 


■'  1  hey  liave  aunond  eyes,  have  tliey 
not?"  V>\\i  while  she  lau<'"hs  she  tingles  Lo  her  (iiiii;cr- 
ends  with  delight. 

"  Vou  look  like  "vvhat  you  are,  the  fairest,  dearest 
darling  in  all  the  world  !  Leo  !"— he  throws  down 
brush  and  niaul-sti(5k,  and  takes  both  her  hands,  with 
a  sudden  impulse  that  Hushes  his  blond  face  and  iires 
his  blue  eyes — "  don't  you  know — I  lov'e  you  !" 

"  Oh  !"  says  Leo,  with  a  sort  of  gasp,  and  tries  to 
draw  her  hands  away.  She  turns  pale  now,  instead 
of  red,  it  is  so  sudden,  and — somehow  he  looks  so 
overwlielming. 

"  Have  I  startled  you  ?  Dear  little  Leo  !  You  were 
always  easily  startled,  I  remember.  I  do  not  know 
that  I  meant  to  speak  this  morning,  but  the  love  we 
bid?  so  lonu;  all  in  a  moment  l)reaks  its  bounds  and 
ov'erflows.  I  love  you  !  You  are  not  angry  that  I 
say  this?" 

"  No,"  Leo  says,  and  laughs  nervously  ;  "  only 
curious.  To  how  many  more  have  you  said  it,  I 
wonder  ?" 


WEDDING  JiELLS. 


393 


Sl,e  l,i,.s  the  truth  so  nearly  that  ho  winco» ;  11,.,. 
Ih',  loo,  l!iiii;lis  a  litilu. 

"  V.'.s,  I  have  said  it  to  others,  but  I  do  „ot  thinl<  I 

ever  meant  ,t  until   to-day.     I  have  deeeived   .ny.el 

-eloro,  and  taken  passing  fancies  for  love  ;  that  is  one 

-on  «.hy  I  have  waited  so  long  hefore  Ispeahin,  Z 

yot .     It  no  passing  faney  now-I  love  j'o,  '     I  h,vo 

-ejond    the  snsp,e,on  of  fortune-hunting.       What    I 

';:r,.d  ■;,''"  ^'"t"'  '.;'' "'"'  "'^' ''"'"-  "^  'if^-  ^v"' 

>oii  Uilr  tliem,  Leo  ?" 

And  Leo's  answer  ?    Well,  it  is  not  in  very  coherent 
words,  hut  ,t  ,s  very  intelligible.     One  look  of  ,he  soft 

hat    .ace  ,s  Inddcn  on  Mr.  Livingston's  velvet  ,,aint- 

>"g-blouse,  and  broken  murmurs  issue  from  Mr    Li^•- 

ingston  s  mustached  lips,  of  which  "  My  darling  !  my 

oye  !  my  Leo  !"  are  ,he  only  distinct  articulations  the 

listening  robins  and  bluebirds  can  catch 

And  there  is  another  wedding  in  September,  an- 
other  fair  bride  ,s  given  away,  another 'young  man 
looks  nonsensically  happy,  another  bridal  breakfast  is 
eaten  another  wedding  trip  is  taken.  Ami  Abbott 
AVood,  under  the  superintendence  of  Dr.  Lamar  ev- 
tenorly,  and  Mrs.  Dr.  Lamar  interiorly,  is  to  be  put 
in  applc-pie  order  for  the  home-coming  and  house- 
warming  that  .arc  to  follow,  and  the  stately  mansion  is 
to  hav-e  Its  mistress  at  last.  Joanna's  prediction  is 
venfied-Leo  will  live  there,  and  not  alone 

For  Joan.,a-well,  letters  come  from  England  with 

cheerfi.   regularity,  and  they  breathe  all  good  wishes 

for  the  happiness  of  the  newly-wedded  pair.     She  is 

well,  and  her  mother  improves  quite  wonderfully  iu 

71*  •' 


304 


TVEDDIXCr  BPJLLS. 


>       1 


])0(ly  and  mind.  S!ie  expresses  no  regrets  at  not  being 
able  to  be  present  at  tlie  inai-riage,  but  she  j)roniises  to 
come  and  spend  ('-liristmas  witli  them  at  lirightbrook. 
Her  plans  for  lier  own  future  are  formed  and  settled  ; 
he'"  mother  wishes  to  reside  j)ermanently  in  England, 
and  Joanna  lives  but  to  aecede  to  hei'  wislu'S.  She  has 
bought  a  pretty  place  there,  she  writes,  and  calls  it 
Brightbrook,  and  so,  after  all,  an  English  Brightbrook 
will  be  her  futuri;  home. 

•!»  T»  'I^  H^  V  V 

So  writes  Joanna.  But,  as  it  chances,  Joanna  is 
not  Madame  Olga's  only  English  correspondent,  and  it 
is  about  this  time  that  the  following  letter  arrives 
from  the  Lady  Hilda  Stafford  : 


Ml 


"My  Dearest  Olga  : — Your  last  was  charming. 
How  vividly  you  picture  your  fair  Brightbrook  home  I 
JIow  I  long  to  see  it,  and  Dr.  Lamar,  and  you  !  But, 
delightful  as  your  Brightbrook  may  be,  it  can  hardly 
i;qual  ours,  I  fancy,  and  even  you  do  not  know  how  to 
he  more  bewitching  than  Miss  Bennett.  We  owe  you 
ii,  debt  of  gratitude  for  your  letters  of  introduction  to 
us,  more  particularly  as  she  has  made  up  her  mind  to 
settle  among  us  '  for  good.'  She  has  purchased  an  ex- 
quisite place  here,  and  named  it  Brightbrook,  as  you 
know,  and  the  neighborhood  is  enchanted  with  its 
American  acquisition.  What  a  voice  she  has  !  and 
what  a  pair  of  eyes  !  I  fell  in  love  with  her  at  sight, 
and,  I  fancy,  I  ara  not  the  only  one  who  has  done  so. 
You  met  Sir  Roland  Hardwicke,  you  know,  while  here. 
You  have  not  forgotten  him,  I  hope  ;  for  if  the  fair, 
stately,  siren-voiced  Joanna  does  not  end  by  becoming 
Lady  Hardwicke,  the  fault  will  not  be  his.     His  case 


WEDDIXG  BELLS. 


80;-) 


)t  boiiicT 
nisos  to 
itbrook. 
settled  ; 
iiglund, 
ISho  has 
calls  it 
litbrook 


anna   is 

t,  and  it 

arrives 


arming. 

^  liome ! 

But, 

hardly 

how  to 

we  you 

:;tion  to 

lind  to 

an  ex- 

as  you 

rith   its 

s  !  and 

sight, 

lone  so. 

e  here. 

le  fair, 

oraing 

s  case 


was  h()j)oless  from  the  first, and  ho  isasplondid  fellow, 
and  (|uite  worthy  even  of  sd  iiohlf  a  heart  as  hers.  Ho 
is  every  inch  a  soldier  and  a  jjri'ntlcnian,  owning  a 
handsome  face,  a  gallant  iigure,  a  long  j»('digrt'(>,  and  a 
h)nger  rent-roll.  Send  your  hlessing  and  approval,  for 
I  really  think  both  will  speedily  be  required." 

Olga  is  delighted — (Tcoftivy  smiles,  and  approves. 
]Joth  remember  Sir  Roland  Ilardwicke  very  distinctly, 
a  man  whose  favor  any  W/man  might  be  ])roud  to  win. 
But  Joanna  is  wui  one  to  be  easily  won,  too  readily 
pleased,  and  the  pedigree  and  rent-roll,  of  which  Lady 
Hilda  speaks,  will  not  count  for  much  with  her. 

''1  hope — oh,  T  do  hojx'he  may  please  her  I  "  Olga 
cries,  "dear,  generous  Joanna!  If  ever  anyone  de- 
serves love  and  haj)piness,  it  is  she.  And,  as  jiis  wife, 
I  ara  sure  she  will  have  both.  Lady  Ilardwicke  !  to 
tliink  of  Joanna — Sleaford's  Joanna,"  laughing,  but 
with  tears  in  the  sapphire  eyes,  "  wearing  a  title  at 
last  ! " 

After  that  the  letters  from  Ladv  Hilda  ar<»  waited 
lor  with  feverish  impatience.  They  come  often,  are 
long  and  satisfactory.  Everything  progresses  well  so 
far  as  she  can  see.  She  is  not  in  Miss  Bennett's  confi- 
dence, of  course,  but  Sir  Roland  is  a  frequent — a  vert/ 
frequent  visitor  at  Briglitbrook,  and  people  talk  of  it 
already  as  n  settled  thing.  Every  one  loves  her,  she 
is  the  Lady  Bountiful  of  the  parish,  and  Lad)'-  Ilard- 
wicke (Sir  Roland's  mother)  has  graciously  offered  to 
present  lier  at  Court  next  season,  which  shows  she  ap- 
proves, etc.,  etc. 

Early  in  December  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Livingston 
return,  and  parties  are  given,  far  and  wide,  in  honor 


306 


WEDDING   BELLS. 


of  the  l)ri(i(3.  And  Frank  has  but  one  secret  in  tlio 
•world  from  his  liltlo  wife,  and  that  one  is  the  r.ict  of 
his  brief  ens^au'enjont  to  Joanna.  Somehow  he  shrinks 
fi'om  tellinj^  that — it  is  the  one  memory  sacred  to  him- 
self and  his  friend,  that  even  his  wife  may  not  know. 
lie  feels  instinctively  that  it  would  ^ive  lier  pain,  thai 
Joanna  would  not  wish  it,  and  so  he  liides  it  in  nis 
heart,  as  iji  a  grave. 

Two  days  before  Christmas  Joanna  comes.  She 
finds  a  rare  household  assembled  at  Al>b()tt  Woorl  to 
me(^t  and  greet,  and  do  her  honor.  Mrs.  Abbott, 
Olga,  and  (Teoflrey,  Frank  and  Leo,  of  course.  IJut 
tliere  are  others,  whoso  pi'esence  is  a  cheering  sur{)rise 
— a  surprise  over  which  she  laughs  and  cries  together. 
The  Professor  and  ]\[adamc  Ericson  are  there  ;  there, 
too,  is  portly  ]\[rs.  Gibbs,  rich  and  rare  in  bla(;k  silk. 
There  is  Thad,  (piite  a  slim  and  "genteel"  young 
man,  a  little  conceited  and  over-dressed,  but  what  will 
you  at  nineteen  ?  There  are  the  twins,  Lonzo  and 
Lizzy.  There  is  Mrs.  Hill  ;  and  the  Reverend  Igna- 
tius Lamb  ;  and  little  Miss  Rice.  There,  in  short,  is 
every  one  Joanna  cares  for  most  in  the  world.  Her 
mother  is  not  with  her,  the  wintry  voyage  was  too 
-much  for  her,  but  she  is  so  tlioroughly  restored  she 
can  bear  cheerfully  to  part  with  her  treasure  for  two 
or  three  months. 

Olga  looks  at  her  keenly.  Yes,  Joanna  is  changed 
— the  change  that  love,  happy  love,  alone  works,  is  in 
her  radiant  face.  Looking  down  into  Olcra's  beauti- 
ful,  questioning  eyes,  the  quick  blush  and  smile  tell 
their  tale.  And  the  sapphire  eyes  flash  with  glad  joy, 
and  Olga's  arms  clasp  her  close. 

"  Oh,  Joanna  !  dearest  Joanna,  is  it  indeed  so  ?  as 


WKDDLNO  liEU.a. 


307 


U<h-  m,V,  ,ay.s.     A,„l  y„„  ,„v..  l,i,„,a,Hl  a,-.  1.,,,,,,  " 

"  lla,,py  !  l,a|,|,y  !  |„,,|,j.  ,..  ;,  j„,,„„,^,^  „ 

llovolii.n  H-ith  all  ,ny  licun."  '  ■* 

".Slid,  a  fTi-at,  brav.,,  ifiMRToiis  l,i,.a,-t.  Oh  mv 
.-.n,^!  Ui.»  only  „.as  I,™,,,.,,  t,  eoinpl.to  ou,  1,1  f 
And  ivlii.ii  is  it  to  bu  r 

"X«.vt  June.    tl„,yt,.ll   n,..,"  .r„,,„,uan,.|,.s.     "  [„ 
Ma  ,  yon  k,u,«.,  I  an.  ,.,  I„.  |,,,.„.„t,,,  ,^  ,.„„,_,,,,_, 

Leo  aio  to  cnu,  „vu-  for  tl.o  wcl.lii,.   whiH,  is  ,o  l,o 
a  vo,.y  gi-and  ..Taii-   ii,.,..,,.     ,>,,,,  j  t,,;,,,  ,  ,^,  ' 

::;i;::';r"  ='""  ■■'^■^' '-" -  ~  '■•  ^.h  ^>' « 

There  are  tears   i„   tli.  ,lark  earnest  eye«      OWr 
gives  her  a  last  rapiui-oiis  kiss.  " 

"Not   one    whit    happier    than    yoi,  <leserve_vo„ 
«..!    „othe!"isheruiti,natnn,,ana 
Olga  s  decisions,  it  stands  uncontradiote,!. 

bellf  i!'  ^^1  Year's  Eve.     Jiiristmat,   with\s   joy 
bell.,  Its  good  ,v,sl,os,  its  good  cheer,  its  liappy  faces 


happy  L 


'•oughtineafrioiuLanditi 


ieo,  as  she  flits  about   the  h 


ue,  true  love,"  sinf. 


lights  flasli,  ^vaI■mth 


ouse.     Fires  bi 


music,  feastini^are  with 


ivu. 


ness,  wind,  cold,  snow  ai-e  without.    Tim  1 


rooms  are  fragrant  with  fl 
gay  with  happy  faces.     Th 


in  ;  dark- 
ong  drawinif- 


]) 


owers,  brilliant  witli  ]anip.s, 
are  oidy  tlie  family  to- 


-.    .....  ....i,,,v  Kice.s.      mere  are  only  the  faml 

igiit   no  outsiders,  but  they  form  a  sufficiently 
assembly.  •' 

Near  one  of  the  windows  Joa 
out  at  the  fast-falling  snow,  list 


large 


nna  stands,  lookii 


ij? 


ening   to   the  wind 


B98 


WF.nniXG  HKLLS. 


:  ',  ■     . 


H 


**  wulhcriiis^ ''  aiiiKii;;-  ilic  ti^-cs.  Slic  looks  a  fair  ami 
Htat.cly  wotiiaii  in  licr  rich  Mack  N'clvct,  dress — tall, 
ini|)0'<iii'jj,  irracions.  Ilcr  velvet  rolie  suits  the  u^raiid 
(Mirves  of  lier  ilmire — it  sweeps  in  ^()^I,  dai'k  ioMs  l>e- 
liind  her  on  llu'  (;ar|)el.  The  line  laci'  at  her  throat  in 
cauLjht  i»y  onc!  K'u«^e,  ^lean)iiiL?  diamond  ;  a  knot  of 
for<jjet-Mi('-nols  is  beneath  it,  another  in   her  hair. 

''  ^'ou  look  a  (jueen  of  'iiohle  Nature's  crowninL;,' 
Joanna,"  says  Livini,rston,  approaehiiiu:.  "1  must 
paint,  yoa  in  that  velvet  dress,  and  these  forg'.'l-me- 
nolfs.  J)o  you  know,  you  liav<'  ht'cn  makinuj  a  ]mc- 
tui'o  of  youi'seir  for  the  past  ten  minutes,  and  that  I 
have  been  lost  in  artistic  admiration." 

"And  that  if  it  had  lasteil  one  milliontli  ])art  of  a 
second  longer  I  should  have  been  jealous,"  hiuujhs  Leo, 
comiuLC  up  ;  and  tlu'ii  there  is  a  momentary  priuse. 
Livintistoii  looks  conscious.  Joanna  smiles  down  at  tho 
dark-eyed  fairy  in  creamy  silk  and   white  roses. 

"And  do  you  know,  wliat  is  more  to  the  j>urpose 
than  empty  compliments,"  says  Mrs.  Geoffrey  Lamar, 
failing  forward  in  a  cloud  of  rose  pink,  silky  sheen, 
*'  that  you  never  sing  for  us  now,  Lady  Hardwicke — 
tnat  is  to  be.  You  have  grown  very  stingy  about  that 
loyely  voice  of  yours  since  you  liave  been  in  foreign 
parts.  Come  and  chant  us  a  New  Year's  anthem,  or 
an  old  year's  dirge,  for  it  is  ahnost  on  the  witching 
stroke  of  twelve." 

Joanna  goes,  and  presently  her  full  rich  tones  ring 
throuGfh  the  room,  but  the  wind  of  the  winter  niofht 
itself   is   hardly   sadder,  wilder,   than    the    strain  she 


sings  : 


"Toll,  bells,  within  your  airy  heights! 
Wail,  wind,  o'er  moor  and  mere  1 


Ontlns,  thos:..l,lest  or  ull  nights. 

i^ikc  tapers  lound  a  bier  ;  ^ 

\\hen<pn..Uo!kHtstil,,.,:u,hssit, 
And  Co.l  scrin.s  very  noar. 

Stnu.^r,,  (ircainy  anl  h^ms  lill  the  street 

^,  ""•  ""■^^'^  ' «o-.T.l„..iv.r,  ' 

1  IK  (Jlcl  Year  s  ^r<,„(,  foiwer  1" 

little  Loo,  roprouchrnlly  ;  '^an,l  .o-ni^h^  of  aTl  'ni.     , 
You  give  me  the  hoart-icl.P      n      •  -^       ' 

dreary."  ''     ^^^  ■''"-  Non,otl,ing  loss 

oloZtti:Z''''^r'^''''''^^  All  the 

^'XJ     TI  \""r\.^^^""^"  «»t  one  after  anolher- 

iMiinrl    tli«,>  f        1       ,  "^gn».       (jood    wishes    rro 

^oys.     This  t.me  it  is  hke  a  jubilant  burst  of  1o, 


<( 


Swing,  bells,  a  huiulrea  h 


j«y 


Lau 


'ippy  ways  I 


gh,  wind    o'er  moor  ^ndm^re  I 


r\     ,1  ."    '  , '  "  ^^  iiiuor  ana 

°V"'i,.!'?,?.';':'?™'<>'"||.d»y 


The  first  day  of 


Thefi 


■ty  of  the  vear! 


rst  sweet  day.  when  every 
Is  cheerful  at  his  hearth;      ^ 
1  lie  first  pure  day,  wh 


one 


en  merry  sun 


<( 


J^ights  up  a  merry  earth 

Swing,  bells,  a  hundred  hannv 
Laugh,  wind,  o'er  moor  and 


appy  ways! 
"  mere  I 


400 


WKDDIXn  np:LLS. 


Oil  this  fill!  ^•Iiiil(lf4  of  all  (liiys, 

TIk!  liisl  (liiy  ol'  ilic  _vc;irl 
Tin:  first  sweet  (iny,  wlieii  we'.l  content 

NVe  n'allirr  louiid  llic  iicaitli; 
O  (Jod,  we  tliaiik   l'ln<',  who  has  Hcut 

'I'liis  New  Year  to  our  earth  1" 

"  What  ii  ujiMiul  criMinre  >he  is  I"  Fniiik  Livlnu^ston 
tliiiikM,  Htaiidiiig  a  little  aj^art,  h)<)kiii,L?  and  liHtcning  ; 
"  tho  iu>l)h'st  \v()man  that  walks  the  earth  !" 

His  little  l>ri(le,  iievei'  ei)iitenl  for  many  minutes 
together  to  hi!  away  i'rom  him,  comes  up,  and  slips  her 
hand  through  his  arm  with  the  old  wistful,  upward 
look. 

"  Thinkini;-  of  Joanna?"  she  says.  "  Does  she  not 
wing  deliciously,  and  does  she  not,  look  lovely  to-night  ? 
Fraidi,  I  wonder,  rich,  accomplished,  liandsome  as  sho 
is,  that  yon  never  fell  in  love  witli  her  in  the  old  <lays. 
I  believe  sho  never  Inid  even  a  passing  fancy  in  all  her 
life  until  she  met  this  Sir  lloland  Ilardwicke. 
Joanna — Lady  Ilardwicke  !     Can  you  realize  it  V" 

Uut  Frank  does  not  say  a  word. 


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Mrs     Y.    P.  Miller. 

Mother  Truth's  Melodies— A  nev  Clnldren's  p  ct.ne  Kiiic!ii::;a!tcu 

Ernest  RonaVs    Frcnrh  "Works 
The  Life  of  Jesus   ..    rr.uislated..'§i   75     I    The  Life  of  St.  Paul.   Transl.itfd . 
Lives  of  ths  Apostles       Do.  1  73     |    The  Bible  in  India— lly  JacoUiot 

G.   W.    f~!arletrn. 

Our  Artist  in  Cuba,  P-i-u,  S:i:iiii,  ..wA    A'i^;ier>— 150  Carn-atures  ol  travel 

MNceila7icon  1     J^nblication-i 

Flawk  eyes  — i  cnmic  l)oo;<  by  "  Tnc    Hu;  .1:1;  ion  ll.iwkeye  Man."     Uliistr.ntcd. .  . 
Cashier's  Scrap-Hook— Anjcilotes  of   I!  m    s  .uul   IJankcrs.       Ily  II.  C  Percy.. 

Tiie  Culprit   Fay-- Josfipii  Ro  Imia   |)ra!:e'-i    I'ocni.     \\itli   loo  illuslralioiis 

VTcrvaisi  (  L'Assommoir) — Tr.uislation  ii- 1  ;i  Z  ij.rs  l'"iencii  novel 

Parlar  AmusemiUts — (rmijs.    Tricks,  aa  I  I!"ini"  Aimwonient^,  hy  I''.  Hellew... 

Love   [L'Amour]    -Iranskuion  from  Mii  ii.  let  ">  f.mious  I'reiich  work 

Woman  [La  Femme] —        Do.  iJo.  Do. 

Verdant  Green — .\  r.icy  ImitUsU  coIie:;e  Story.     Witli  200  comic  illustrations.... 

Laus  Veneris,  anl  Qtlier    Co-nis — Hy  Algernon   t'liailes  Suinlninie 

Birds  of  a  Feather  Flock    Together — P.y  l'",,iwaid  A    Soiliern.  tlic  actor 

Beatrice  Cenci  —  I'ran-il.if.'d  fron   t!io  llaiian  no\cl.  with  portrait  hy  Cluido 

The  Two  Brides-A  nc'.v  novel  hv  Rtv.    Pcrnar-l  O'Reilly;   I.aval..... 

Morning  Glories— .\  channintr  collectio  1   of  <  'hililrcn's  stories.    I!y  Louisa  Alcott. 

A  Southern  Woman's  Story  —  P.y  >.!:•:.    Pho'ii..  Y.aes  Peniher 

The  Gospels  in  Pojtry  -Xmvly  tr.uisi.it  :  1    l>\   Mlii^ili  H.  Kiinh.ill 

Lion  Jack  — ,\  new  illustrate  1   Menagerie  hiol:  f  .r  1  oys.      Hy  P.    T.  Harnuni 

Strategems  and  Consp'racies— .\tteiiipts  to  defrnul  T.if-  Insurance  fomi'anies, 

Fr  )m   New  York  to  San    Francisco— l!y  Mrs.  I'luik   Leslie.     Ilhistiated 

W!iy  Wifci  and  I  Quarreled— Poems  hy'the  antior  ''  Hetsey  and  I  are  out.".. 

Wost   India  Pickles  -A  yacht  Cniis-:   in"  the  Tropics.     Pv  \V.  P   Tallov^ 

H  r.^r  to  Make  Money;  'and   how  to  Keep  it— I'v  Tliomas  A.  Davies 

Thrtading  M/  Way— The  Autoliio-ranliy  of  Rohert  Dide  Owen 

D;hatab!e  Land  between    this  World' and    Next  — Robert  Dale  Owen 

Lights  and  Shadows  of  Spiritualism— P,v  D.  D.  Home,  the  Medium 

Yachtman's  Primer — Instructions  for  Amateur  Sailors.     Hv '!'.  R.  Warren. 

Souvenirs  of  Travel— Hy  Ma  lame   ( )ctavia  Walton  l.e  Vert,  of'Mohle.  Ala 

The  Fall  of  Man — \  Darwinian  S.itiie,  hv  nnthor  of '"  New  (lospel  of  Pe.ice.". . 

Tne  Chronicles  of  Gotham— .A  New  York  Satire.      Do.  Do. 

Tales  from  th3   Operas — .V  collection  of  stories  has"d  upon  the  Opera  plots.... 

Progressive   Petticoats— \  Satiri.al'lale.     Hy  Robert  P..  Roosevelt 

Our  Children  — Hints  for  keet>iii^   tlu-m  in  Health.      P.v  Dr.  Oardner 

Ladies  and   Gentlemen's  Etiquetle  Book,  of  tiie  best  K.isluonahle  Society... 
Accomplishments  in  Conversation,   Letter-Writing,  and  Oratory.... 
Love  and    Marriage — .\  hook  for  vouns  p-oplc.      Hy  l'"red'-rick  Saunders.    . 

Under  the    Rose  — .\  capital  liool;.  by  the  author  of  "  I'.asi  L\  luie." 

So   Dear  a   Dream — .\  novel  by  Miss  Clrant,  author  of  "The- .Sun  Maid.". . .     ... 


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H.  M.  S.  Pinafore— The  Play  ....$     lo 

Parlor  Music  Album i  50 

Comic  Primer  — l''r:iiik    i'.i-llcw  ...       25 

He  and   I — Sarali   15.   Stcbbiiis 50 

Annals  of  a  Baby.         Do       ...         50 

Parlor  Table    Companion i  50 

Me — Mrs.  Spencer   W.   C,"oc   50 

Trump  Kards — Jo.sh  Hillings 10 

Little  Guzzy — Jolm  Habhcrton i  00 

Lady  Huckleberry's  Opinions.  .       2."; 

Offenbach  in  America 1  50 

Rural  Archi'.ecture — M.  Field..,.  2  00 

Coney  Island  and  tliejews 10 

Book  About   Lavvjers— JefTerson  i  50 
Book  About   Doctors.  Do.        i  50 

Glimpbes  of  the  Supernatural...  i  50 
Widow  Spriggins-\ViJow  llcdott.  i  50 


Miscellaneous    Works. 


Victor  Hugo — Autobiography $1 

Orpheus  C.    Kerr— 4  vols,  in  one..  2 

Fanny  Fern   Memorials 2 

Parodies— C.  H.  Webb  (John  Paul)  i 
My  Vacation.  Do.         Do.        1 

Sandwiches — Arteni'is  Ward 

Comic  History  U.  S.-L.    Hopkins  i 

Watchman  of  the  Night i 

Nonsense  Rhymes-W.  11.  Heckett  i 

Sketches— John  11.    Kingsbury 1 

Lord  Baieman— Criiikshank's  III.. 
Northern  Ballads-K.  ],.  Anderst  n  i 

Beldazzle  Bachelor  Poems i 

Wood's  Guide  to  N.  Y.  City i 

Onh'   Caprice  —  P,.per  ccn'ers 

Was  It  Her  Fault.  Do 

Fashion  and  Passion.  Do 


Madame — I'rank  F.ce  Penedict  jfi 
Hammer  and  Anvil —  Do.  Do.,  i 
Pier  Friend  Lawrence  — Do.  Do..   \ 

Sorry  Her  Lot — .Miss  (Irant i 

Two  of  Us— La!isla  llal.'iey 

Spell-Bound — .Ale.xandre  J^umas. . 

Wired  Love— 1'-.  C.  Thayer 

Cupid  on  Crutches— A.  1!.  Wood. 
Doctor  Ar.tonio — (1.    isuffini 

Ange— Florence  Mariyatt 

Errors— R\uli  (arier 

Heart's  Delight— Mrs.  Aiderdice. 
Unmistakable  Flirtation- L.( Earner 

Wild  Oats  — Florcr.i!'  ?\l:iiryatt 

True  Love  Rewarded — \.  S.  Rue 
Widow  Cherry — !•;.  L.  F.irjeon... 
Solomon  Isaacs —      1  )o.     Do. 
Led  Astray— l!y  f  lot- \e  FcniHet. . 
She  Loved  Hini  Madly — iJorys. . . 

Thick  and  Thin— Mcry 

So  Fair  yet  Fal'..e — C'havettc... 
A  Fatal  Passion— C.  P-ernnrd  ... 
Woman  in  the  Case— I!.  I  urner.. 
Marguerite's  Journal— For  C.irls. 
Milly  Darrel— M.  E.  Ihnddon. . . . 
Edith  Murray— Joanna  Mathews.. 
Doctor  Mortimer — Fannie  Pcan.. 
Outwitted  at  Last — S.  A.  Gardner 

Vesta  Vane — 1>.  King,  R 

Louise  and  I— C.  R.  Dodge 

My  Queen— Hy  Snndette 

Fallen   among'  Thieves — Rayne.. 

San  Miniato— Mrs.  Hamilton 

Peccavi — JMnma   Wendler 

Conquered — By  a  New  Author 

Shiftless  Folks—  Fannie  .Smith  . .. 
Baroness  of  N.  Y. — Joa(|uin  Miller 
One  Fair  Woman —  Do.  l)o. 
Another  Man's  Wife— Mrs.  Hartt 
Purple  and  Fine  Linen — l''awcett. 
Pauline's  Trial — I,.  D.  Courtney.. 
The  Forgiving  Kiss — M.  I.oth... 


Miscellaneous    Novels 


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All  For  Her- A  tale  of  New  York 
All  For  Him— Hy  All  For  Her.... 

For  Each  Other—     Do 

Janet— An  iMiglish  novel 

Innocents  Irom  Abroad 

Flirtation — A  West  Point  novel.... 

Loyal  unto  Death 

That  Awful  Bey 

That  Bridget  of  Ours 

Bitteiwood--Hv  M.  A.  Green 

St.  Peter's  Bride— Mrs.  S.  Harper 
Fizzlebury's  Girl — De  Cordova... 
Eros — A  talc  of  love  and  soda  w  ater. 
A  Woman  in  Armor — Ha'twell... 
Phemie  Frost- Ann  S.  Stephens.. 

Charette— An  American  novel 

Fairfax — lolni  Estcn  Cooke 

Hilt  to  Hilt  Do 

Out  of  the  Foam.     Do 

Hammer  and  Rapier. Do 

Warwick— Py  M.  T.Walworth 

Lulu.  Do 

Hotspur.  Do 

Stormcliff.  Do 

Delaplaine.  Do 

Beverly.  Do 

Seen  and  Unseen 

Kenneth,  My  King— S.  A.  P.rock. 
Heart  Hungry-M.J.W^cstmoreland 

Clifford  Troupe.  Do 

Silcott  Mill— Maria  D.  Deslonde.. 

John  Marihel.  Do 

Passing  the  Portal — Mrs.  Victor. 
Out  of  the  Cage— G.  W.  Owen.  . 
Saint  Leger — Richard  13  Kimball. 
Was  He  Successful?  Do. 
Undercurrents  of  Wall  St. Do... 
Romance  of  Student  Life.  Do... 
To- Day.  Do... 
Life  in  San  Domingo.  Do. . . 
Henry  Powers,  Banker.  Do... 
Manfred — Guerra.  zi 


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A  Woiidei'fal  Xctv  Boole,  tfast  Pahllshed, 

CAllLETON'S 

HOUSEHOLD  ENCYCLOPAEDIA 


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EDITED  BY  THE  ABLEST  ICALENT  THE  WORLD   AFFOSDS. 


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a  very  few  line.— in  a  nut-sliell,  so  lo  speak.  No  single  volume  was  ever  before  pub- 
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In  reading  nearly  any  b().)k  or  paper  there  are  frequent  references  to  a  thousand 
and  one  matters  wiiieli  the  general  reader  would  like  to  understand  a  liiHi'  more 
about,  and  which,  unless  lie  has  a  largo  lil)rarvof  cosMy  books  to  ref'i-  to.  he  can 
learn  nothing;  bat  here,  with  this  one  volume,  CARLKTON'S  HOrsiJIloLD 
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whole  thing  is  cle.irly  and  concisely  e.\'i)lained  I  There  has  never  been  any  one  b(X)k 
BO  immen-'eiy  valnal)le  for  the  (ieneral  I'nblic. 

A  very  ii'nportaui  fe-ituro  of  the  book  is.  that,  in  addition  to  every  subject  boin" 
carei'uUy  inde.K  ■  ll>y  ^'•■.y//',  so  that  any  one  word  can  be  turned  to  at  once.  tluM-eadi  -will 
find  eveVylhing  i-eiat,ing  to  one  geniTal  subject  is  collected  togelherniidcr  one  general 
classillcation.  For  example:— Mythology  is  tnuited  of  in  one  place,  and  everything 
about  it  is  under  one  eliiuter,  while,  in  theCoMi'LET!';  Index,  each  individual  charac- 
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CHARLES  DICKENS'  WOKKS. 


|l 


f^n-Mti^  The  many  e<Jitions  of  tlie  works  of  this  greatest  A 
hngliph  Novelists  'liere  lias  not  been  until  now  one  that  entijipiy 

^"itiiSiss  the  puhii.:  '-i.-n-.an.l.  -  Wiihout  e.v'.-e[)li;jii,  tl  ey  each  have 
aonie  sin.;!.,'  iisfinctive  objection,  —  either  the  form  and  lUmensions 
•^i  liie  voli.r.ic-  aie  uuhuuiy--  jr,  the  type  is  small  and  indistinct-- 
Of,  t!i(;  iilustnilioi: .  are  iiniiatisfacfory--  or,  the  biniing  is  poor-— or, 
ibe  price  i*-  too  t:!:.^K. 

An  entirely  new  edition  is  nozv,  however,  published  by  G.  W, 
Carleton  A:  Co.  of  \'ew  S'oik,  which,  it  is  believed,  will,  in  every 
Inspect,  eompletely  satisfy  tlte  popular  demand. — It  is  known  as 

^^CarlctoiiN  IVtinv  EllusiratecS  BldiitfO'n.'' 

CoMi'LKTE  IN  15  Volumes. 

The  size  and  form  is  most  convenient  for  holding,— the  type  i» 
entirely  new,  and  of  a  cloai  and  open  character  that  has  received  the 
approval  of  t)ic  reading  community  in  other  populpir  woiks. 

The  illustrations  are  by  the  original  artists  chosen  ly  Charles 
Dickens  himself  -and  the  paper,  printing,  and  binding  are  of  an 
attr?xtive  and  subsluntial  character. 

This  !)eautiful  new  edition  is  complete  in  15  volumes — at  the 
e«t*eaiely  reasoiiable  price  of  $1.50  per  volume,  as  follows: — 

I. — PICKWICK   PAPERS   ANO    CATALOGUE. 

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3, — DAVID  cor!'i:i;  riKLl). 

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8. — CURIOSITY   SHOP  AND   MISCELLANEOUg. 

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4. — SKETCHES    BY    a.OZ   AND    HAuD   TXMES. 
15. — CHILD'S    ENGLAND   AND    MISCELLANEOUS. 

The  firsi  volnmo  —Pickwick  Papers — contains  an  alph/^hctk.,/ 
catalogue  of  all  of  Charles  Dickens'  writings,  with  ll:eir  p■^sltiou 
in  ihc  volumes. 

Tlii;  txlition  is  sold  by  Booksellers,  everywhere — arm  singlt.  sped- 
m>:Mi  cc»tiios  vdil  tie  forwarded  by  msM,  pi>siage  free^  on  rcoipt  ef 
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G.  W.  SARLETON  &  CO.,  Pfiblishyrs, 

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Mrs.  Mary  J.  Holmes'  Works. 


TKMI'KST  AND  SUN^HINI-:. 

ENilI.ISH   ORl'Il.AXS. 

HOMi;.SrK\l)  (JN   HILLSIDE, 

'LKNA    KP;KRS. 

MEADOW    15  ROOK. 

DORA    I) KANE. 

COnSIN    MAUDE. 

MARtAN    (JKEY. 

EDI.  TH    LVl.K. 

DALSY   THORNTON.     CXeifJ. 


DARKNESS  AND  DAYLIGHT. 

HUCH    \V(JKTHIN(;T0N. 

CAMERON    PRIDE. 

ROSE    MATHER. 

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M  1 1, LI! AN  K. 

EDNA    HUOWNING. 

WEST   LAWN. 

.\HLDRED. 

FORREST  HOUSE.       UNeiv). 


OPINIONS    OF    THE    PRESS. 

"Mrs.  Holmes'  stories  are  iiiiiversally  read.  Her  admirers  are  numberless. 
She  is  in  many  respects  without  a  rival  in  th--  world  (f  fiction.  Her  characters  are 
always  life  like,  ; nd  she  makes  t'.cm  talk  and  act  like  human  bein^js,  suljject  to  the 
same  emotions,  swayed  by  the  sanu;  passions,  and  actuated  by  the  same  motives 
which  are  common  among  men  and  women  of  every  day  existence.  Mrs.  Holmes 
is  very  happy  in  portraying  domestic  life.  Old  and  youii?  peruse  her  stories 
with  great  dt  light,  for  she  writes  in  a  scyle  that  all  can  comprehend." — A'l  7w 
York   ]V,-cfdy. 

The  North  American  Review,  v"l.  8i,  page  557,  snys  of  Mrs.  Mary  J. 
Holmes'  n  ivel,  "English  (Jrpiians": — "With  this  novel  of  Mrs.  Holmes'  we  iiave 
been  charmed,  and  so  h.ive  a  pretty  num'-Tous  circle  of  discriminatiiii;  readers  to 
whom  we  have  lent  it  The  characterization  is  exquisite,  especially  .so  far  as 
concerns  rural  and  vill  i<5e  life,  of  which  there  are  some  pictures  th.it  deserve  to 
be  hung  up  in  perpetttal  memory  of  types  of  humanity  fast  l.'ecoming  extinct.  The 
dialogues  are  generally  brief,  pointed,  and  apjiropriate.  The  plot  seems  simple, 
so  easily  and  uiturally  is  it  developed  and  consumm.ited.  i\loreo\er,  the  story 
thus  gracefully  constructed  anil  written,  inculcates  without  obtiuding,  not  only 
pure  Christian  morality  in  general,  bu%  with  e.sp'jcial  point  and  power,  the  depen- 
dence of  true  success  on  ciiaracter,  ;ind  of  true  respectability  on  merit.'' 

"Mrs.  TTolmes'  stories  aro  all  of  a  domestic  character,  and  their  interest,  tliere- 
for'*,  is  not  so  intense  as  if  they  were  more  highly  s-.asoned  with  sensationalism, 
but  it  is  of  a  healthy  and  abiding  character.  Almost  any  new  book  whi  h  iiei 
publish-T  ini^ht  choose  m  .innounce  from  her  pen  would  get  an  immediate  and 
general  reading.  The  interest  in  her  tales  begins  at  once,  ami  is  maintained  ic 
the  close.  Her  setitiments  are  so  sound,  her  sympathies  so  warm  and  re  ady, 
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excellent  tale  if  she  were  to  try  it." — Boston  Banner. 


'The  vnliim''s  are  all  handsomely  pri:ited  and  bomid  in  cloth,  sold  every 
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^ra» 


G,   W.   CARLETON  &  CO,,  Publishers, 

Madison  Square,  Xi'7o    York. 


THREE    VALUABLE    BOOKS. 


II A IV  1  J. 


♦- 


HOCJIETY. 


I.— Tit4;  Art  of  DoiiverMiiliftsi, 

With  Dirortloiiw  for  Self  OuUiire.  An  ndmirably  concoivod  and  entertnining  WOTB  wn 
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^i'rn\  i.ilkiT  or  listpiier.  '-r  who  v/ishus  to  nppcar  to  ndvi'.nla'JTO  in  (,'ood  socMt-ty.  EvtTj  VotlOg 
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AXTr-^noS  in  roNVEUHATION.— SaTIUE. —      Rf.LFISHNI'SS.— AnOUMENT,-    '-ACBmOE*.- 


PrNH. — Saucahsi. — Tkabing. — CKNStriu;. — 

PaL'L  t  FiNDIVO.— KdOTIBM.— POLITKNHSH. 
—  COilfMMK.N'J'd. — HtoIUKS. —  ANl'CDOTKa. 

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— SlAUlNO. — DlSAUKEKAliLE     SUUJtCTH. — 


Sili;nt  TKorLE. — xJinneh  Con  vers atios. 
— Timidity  and  Its  Citue.— Modesty. — 

CoiatECXLANGUAaB.— SELF-IS«TRCCrnON. 

— MiycEi.LANEous       Knowledob. —  Lam- 

GUAUE3.— GENEHAL   HiNTS   TO  AlX. 


II.— The  lla!>il$4  of  diood  Society. 

A  Hand-book  for  Ladies  and  GentlrTnen.  Witli  thoughts,  hints,  and  anccdotoa  concern- 
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chaptcvH  upon — 


(iEstlemen'b  Preface. 
Ladies'  I'rkeace. — Fashions. 
TnoucHTs  ON  SoriETir. 
Good  t'lOciETX. — Bad  Society. 
The  DitEssiNO  ItooM. 
The  LaijIi;s'  'J'oilet.— DREsa 
Feminine  Aocomvltsiiments. 
Manners  and  IIadits. 
Puni.ic  and  Private  Etiquette. 
Maruied  and  Unmahried  Ladies. 
l^o  l;o    Gentlemen. 

Callino  Etiquette. —Cauds. 

ViaiTlNO   ExiQUETXK.-DlNNERa. 


Ladikh  AT  Dinner. 
Dinner  Uabits. — (Jarvino. 
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Private  Theatricals. 

RECEPTIONK. — E.NOAGEMENOB. 

AfARRiAGE  Ceremonies. 
Invitations. — ])hi:8seb. 
Bridesmaids.— I'RKfiENTS. 
Traveling  I'tiquette. 
Public  Promknade. 
Country  Visits.— City  Viutb. 


IIS.— Arts  of  ^Vritiiigfi  Readiiig^,  and  Speaking. 

A  fascinating  work  for  teachins;  and  porfectinfr  every  one  in  these  three  inoBt  desirable 
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Rr.M)iNo    and  Thinking.— Language.—     AV'hat  not  to  Sat.— 1To%v  to  Eeoin.— 


Words,  Sentences,  and  Construction. - 
What  to  Avoid. — Letter  Writing. — 
Pronu.nciation. —  EspREssTON.— Tone. — 
RLUaious  Rkadinos.— The  Birle.— 
I'rayerh. — Dramatxc  Readings.— Ora- 
roii-s   and  Speaking. — What   to  Say. — 


Caution.^. -I) elivery.-Writing  a  Sfeeob, 
— First  Lessons.— I '.•p.lvc  BrEMiiNe-.-DK- 
LivERY. — Action. — Oratory  of  the  Ptl# 
PIT.- C0.MPOSIT10N. — The  Bai;  -UwMnvQ 
OF  Wit  and  Humor.— Ike  Platpcbm.— 
Construction  of  a  Speech. 


*i*  The**; 


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"loeii't  ol  ptidc. 


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(1  Speaking. 

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